The morning sun did not rise in the Ash-Dregs. It merely turned the toxic, omnipresent coal-smog from pitch black to a sickly, bruised shade of purple.
Inside the Orphanage of St. Gear, the air was thick and tasted heavily of copper and sulfur.
Clack. Hiss. Clack. A battered, clockwork barometer mounted on the wall ticked erratically. The needle hovered dangerously in the red zone marked 'Hazardous Particulates'.
Dorothy stood in the center of the common room, surrounded by sleeping children curled up on thin mattresses made of repurposed wool and hay.
A ragged, wet cough broke the morning silence.
Dorothy was at the bedside in an instant. Pip, a tiny six-year-old with paper-pale skin and dark, bruising circles under his eyes, was clutching his chest. His breath wheezed horribly—a telltale sign of "Mana-Lung," the deadly sickness that came from breathing the unprocessed aether-fumes venting from the mid-level factories.
"It hurts, Dot," Pip whimpered, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
"I know, buddy," Dorothy whispered, smoothing his hair and trying to hide her panic. She checked the small brass inhaler on his nightstand. Empty.
"Asher," Dorothy called softly.
Asher appeared from the small, attached kitchen, looking grim. She held up a rusted metal canister. "We're completely out of medicine. And the main water pump just broke a seal. Tess says it's pulling up sludge from the river."
A girl of about ten, Tess, peeked out from behind Asher, her hands covered in black grease. She was holding a corroded brass valve. "The threading is stripped, Dot. I tried to patch it with leather strips, but it won't hold the pressure."
"It's okay, Tess," Dorothy stood up, her face hardening into a mask of absolute resolve. "You did good."
She walked into the main room where Jack, Ivy, and Rowan were gathered around a small table, staring at a meager pile of copper coins.
Rowan was limping, a fresh bandage wrapped around his head, but he refused to sit down.
"Situation report," Dorothy demanded, crossing her arms.
"It's bad," Jack rubbed his temples, exhaustion etched deep into his features. "We need three fresh alchemical scrubbers for the ventilation shafts. We need two medicine inhalers for Pip immediately. We need a new brass pump valve for the water. And..." He gestured to the empty pantry shelves. "...we have enough protein gruel for maybe one meal."
"The scrubbers alone cost fifty sovereigns a piece on the open market," Ivy noted, tapping her pencil against her ledger. "The medicine is another twenty. The valve requires a specialized machinist."
"We have the cash from the side-hustles," Rowan said, gesturing to the table. "I counted it. We have about eight hundred coppers."
"Eight hundred coppers," Ivy sighed. "But since we're Unregistered, we can't use official Syndicate shops. We have to pay a broker's tax on the black market. With the conversion rates... that eight hundred barely buys us four hundred coppers' worth of goods."
"So, we can't even afford a single filter," Rowan kicked a wooden crate in sheer frustration. "The system is entirely rigged. We have money, but it's worthless because we aren't 'real' citizens."
"We need all of it," Dorothy said, looking back over her shoulder at Pip's tiny cot. "We aren't choosing between breathing and drinking water. We get it all."
"How?" Jack asked quietly.
"We haggle," Dorothy grabbed her heavy, weather-stained tweed coat from a peg. "And we bleed if we have to. Jack, stay here. Keep the kids safe. Rowan, you're with me. You still look rich enough to be my 'client.'"
"I look like I got run over by a steam-train," Rowan muttered, adjusting his torn collar.
"Exactly," Dorothy smirked faintly. "Rough trade is very fashionable among the bored aristocrats in the Mid-Levels right now."
They took a rusted, chain-driven service lift up to the transition zone—a foggy, sprawling market suspended on iron scaffolding between the Dregs and the factory districts known as "Filter Alley."
It was a miserable place where desperate people sold their dignity, their labor, or their bodies for a chance at clean water and breathable air. The noise was deafening—steam vents hissing violently, vendors shouting their wares, and the constant clatter of horse-drawn carts hauling raw materials.
First, they tried the water stall.
"Brass pump valve, standard threading," Dorothy said to the Water Monger, a man sitting behind a wall of cloudy glass tanks.
"Fifty sovereigns," the Monger grunted, not even looking up from his ledger.
Rowan slammed a stack of copper coins onto the counter. "We have cash."
The Monger looked at the copper like it was infectious waste. He sneered, showing rotting teeth. "Get that trash off my counter. Stamped Guild Notes only. Valid citizenship seal required."
"We'll pay double in copper," Rowan pressed, leaning forward.
"I don't deal with the Unregistered," the Monger spat. "Get lost before I call a constable. You're blocking paying customers."
Rowan's fists clenched, ready to punch the man, but Dorothy dragged him away by the coat sleeve.
"Don't," she hissed under her breath. "Come on, we need a Broker."
They moved deeper into the foggy alley, past stalls selling 'recycled meat pies' that smelled suspiciously like rat, and vendors hawking stolen, rusty pocket watches.
They stopped at a stall run by a man named Vexler. He was a citizen—someone with a valid seal who acted as a middleman for the Unregistered. He bought goods legally and sold them for untraceable cash at a markup that would make a loan shark blush.
Vexler was a weaselly man with a twitching, clockwork nose made of polished brass. He grinned as they approached.
"Ah, Dorothy," Vexler greeted, spreading his hands. "Always a pleasure to see the beauty of the Dregs. I see you brought a friend." He eyed Rowan's bandage and fine boots.
"We need a shopping list," Dorothy cut him off, all business. "Three Class-A alchemical scrubbers. Two lung inhalers. One brass pump valve. And a crate of actual food."
Vexler whistled, a low, impressed sound. "Quite the party. That's... let's see... market value is about two hundred sovereigns."
"How much in copper?" Dorothy asked.
Vexler pulled out a small abacus. "With the Unregistered tax, the hazard fee, and the 'I like you guys' discount... five thousand coppers."
"Five thousand?!" Rowan burst out. "That's everything we have times five!"
"Guild Notes are hard to come by, lad," Vexler shrugged unapologetically.
Dorothy put a hand on Rowan's chest, pushing him back. She knew how this game was played.
"We have eight hundred," Dorothy said flatly.
Vexler laughed. "Eight hundred gets you protein gruel. Maybe one half-empty inhaler if I'm feeling particularly generous today."
Dorothy's eyes went completely cold. She leaned over the counter, grabbing Vexler's collar. "It's for the kids, Vexler. Pip is dying."
"I run a business, Dot, not an almshouse," Vexler sighed, though he didn't pull away. "The Syndicate raised the price of refined aether again. My costs are up."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so the passing crowds wouldn't hear.
"However, since it is for the orphans... I might be willing to trade. I hear your little gang recovered some... high-end scrap from that Syndicate outpost yesterday before the constables arrived."
Rowan stiffened instantly. "How do you know about that?"
"Word travels fast in the steam pipes," Vexler winked his one organic eye. "You give me one of those Centurion mainspring cores you fried... and I'll fill your whole list. Even swap."
Dorothy froze. They did have a core. Jack had salvaged the glowing heart of the automaton she had short-circuited in the hallway. But that core was highly illegal, military-grade technology. On the open black market, it was worth ten times what Vexler was offering. It could power the orphanage's heating for a year.
But Pip was coughing right now. The water was sludge right now.
A power core was useless if they were dead.
"Fine," Dorothy said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. She reached into her deep pocket, pulled out the heavy, ticking brass cylinder, and slammed it onto the counter. "One core. For everything. And throw in a bag of real apples for the kids."
Vexler's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He snatched the ticking core before she could change her mind and hid it under his counter. "Deal! Pleasure doing business with you, as always!"
He hurried to the back of his stall, loudly loading a wooden crate with the scrubbers, the medicine, the valve, and the food. He tossed a small burlap sack of withered, slightly bruised apples on top.
Rowan grabbed the heavy crate. It weighed a ton, but his heart felt heavier. They had just traded a fortune for the bare minimum required to survive another week.
"It's a rigged game," Rowan growled as they walked back toward the rusted service elevator. "We steal a diamond just to buy a loaf of bread. We're running in circles, Dorothy. We're bleeding out slowly."
"We're running," Dorothy corrected, adjusting her coat collar against the damp wind. "That's better than crawling."
She looked out over the iron railing, gazing down into the smog-choked, endless abyss of the Ash-Dregs where Pip and Tess were waiting for them to return.
"One day, Rowan," she whispered, her voice carrying a terrifying, unyielding promise. "We're going to break the wheel. But today... Pip needs to breathe."