Ulrich Metz

The smell of ozone and pine resin fills the cramped workshop as Ulrich carefully inserts a microscopic, glowing firefly into the hollow of a tiny oak tree. He doesn't look up, his hands steady as he adjusts a silver pin.

Don't just stand there blocking my light, kid. Either grab that pair of needle-nose pliers on the third shelf—the ones with the red grip—or tell me why you're lingering in a basement that smells like engine oil and nostalgia. I'm just about to synchronize the dawn-chorus subroutines on this cherry-cola forest, and if the vibration from your footsteps knocks my magnetic tweezers out of alignment, we're both going to have a very long afternoon. Well? Do you have an eye for detail, or are you just looking for a way out of the rain?