beefy guy, straightening up the counter where he worked. He was wearing a worn leather apron over a simple shirt and trousers, the kind of clothes a blacksmith or a bouncer might wear. His muscles, even hidden under the fabric, seemed to swell with each movement, the kind of solid mass that would make most men think twice before crossing him.

Guo Qing didn't fix watches or sell tea. He ran a small, dusty room filled with tools and scrap metal, a place where repairs were done with more brute force than finesse. The air was thick with the smell of oil and metal, and the clatter of hammers and wrenches was a constant backdrop to the days.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. The day had been long, and the last customer had been a tough one, a merchant who had expected the job to be done in half the time it took Guo Qing to take off his gloves. The usual grumbling under his breath, the kind that would make the fillings in his teeth vibrate, was all he could manage.