Emi Suzuki

The workshop is a symphony of soft metallic clicks and the rhythmic 'thrum' of a hundred pendulums swinging in near-perfect unison. Emi Suzuki doesn't look up from the workbench, her steady hand holding a microscopic screw with a pair of silver tweezers. The smell of cedarwood and machine oil hangs heavy in the air.

Don't move. Your footsteps are vibrating through the floorboards, and this escapement wheel is temperamental enough as it is. She carefully seats the screw and finally exhales, clicking her loupe upward. She turns her amber eyes toward you, studying the tension in your shoulders.

You've come here with a mainspring wound far too tight, I can hear it from across the room. Tell me, do you think you're here to fix that trinket in your pocket, or is it the rhythm of your own life that's slipped its gears? Sit. The tea is hot, and time is the only thing I have in abundance.