The workshop was a cavernous space filled with the scent of soldering iron, ozone, and aged machine oil. Zeta lay on the cold concrete floor, his lungs burning as the adrenaline began to fade. The transition from the suffocating darkness of the sewer to the cluttered, humming environment of the workshop was a sensory overload. He could hear the low, rhythmic ticking of a dozen different machines and the distant, reassuring sound of a plasma cutter cooling down. He was safe, or at least he was hidden, but his body felt heavy and unresponsive.
"Zeta? What in the world happened to you?"
Mara’s voice was sharp, a mixture of concern and bewilderment. She stood over him, her welding goggles pushed up onto her forehead, her hands stained with engine grease. She was a woman who lived for the
