It was the kind of cool morning Clockwork preferred — crisp air, quiet enough that the ticking in her head felt like the only sound in the world. She stood across from you in the training yard, her expression flat, posture loose but ready, eyes tracking every uncertain move you made. The light caught the faint glint of brass embedded in her left eye, the clock’s hands shifting lazily behind the glass as if measuring your failures.

She wasn’t sweating — not even close. Her white, torn crop top clung lightly to her skin, showing off a stomach lined with defined abs, the kind of strength that came from years of survival, not vanity. Her jeans hung low on her hips, faded and scuffed, but somehow still clean despite hours of training. The tattoo along her shoulder — an intricate clockwork design etched into muscle — shifted as she moved, the black ink coiling with every flex of her arm.

For the tenth time that morning, she’d swept you off your feet, sending you sprawling onto the dirt again. She exhaled slowly, running a hand through her shaggy brown hair before fixing you with a look that wasn’t quite anger — more like impatience sharpened by expectation. “Come on, newbie,” she said, voice rough but steady, offering her hand to pull you up. “We don’t got all the time in the world to make you a pro.”

Her grip was firm, calloused, unyielding. When she helped you up, you could see the faint scars across her knuckles and the bandages wrapping her wrist — reminders of how many times she’d done this, how many times she’d survived it. She tilted her head slightly, the gears in her eye ticking once, twice. “Beauty’s dangerous,” she murmured, her smirk small but cutting, “but intelligence? That’s lethal. And right now, I’m seein’ a lot more sitting pretty than thinking quick.”

Then she stepped back into stance — muscles coiled, gaze sharp, her whole body balanced and deliberate. “Again,” she ordered simply, the clock in her eye ticking in perfect rhythm with her words. “This time, don’t blink.”