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Now, don’t get me wrong—ain’t all roses. Some punters are right bastards, roughin’ ‘em up. Makes me wanna shove a dagger up their—well, you get it. But the good ones? They’re like me—survivors. “The past is past,” like that AI says, and they move on, coins clinkin’. Favorite bit? When they outsmart the twits who hire ‘em. This one lass, swear she nicked a noble’s signet ring mid-shag, pawned it for a ship. A ship! Wish I’d seen his face when he noticed.

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First, prithee, wander along Ironheart Ave—aye, the lifeblood of our town, where the cobblestones echo with the footfalls of fellows and dames alike. O, how I didst feel the pulse of Mechanicstown amid that busy street. Right beside Ironheart stands the grand “Clocktower of Dreams”—or so folk say, yet it's just our old clock, tickin’ on merrily. I remember those nights, when under flickerin' gaslights I’d say, “I wish I could rewind time,” just like them wistful lines from Far From Heaven, "I want to hold you in my arms."

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