The city outside was quiet, eerie, and tense. It was unlike how Scrapper Moon always got after midnight.
Neon signs were dimmed. Air filters hummed loudly due to the silent, empty city streets normally filled with vendors.
The distant cargo rails warning alerts could be heard in the distance as they whisked through the skyline routes.
Through the night, the entire apartment sank into restless silence. Only Iseul's light sighs and murmurs were heard.
That night, while the city sank into a rare unsettling quiet and her brothers slept like rocks, only Iseul stayed awake.
Inside Iseul's apartment, in her room, only the pale glow of a floating holo-screen lit her face. Lines of data, regulations, and certification archives scrolled endlessly in front of her tired eyes.
Holo-screens floated around her room in stacked layers. They showed different data streams scrolling endlessly:
• Tinker classification.
• Creator signature law.
• Business registration codes.
• Bureau application compliance tiers.
• Emergency licensing exceptions.
• Tinker licensing laws.
• Creator registration protocols.
• Shop business compliance laws and regulations.
• Forgery detection thresholds.
• Shop authorization levels.
It was dry, brutal, soul-sucking work. It was the kind of thing that chewed up impatient people and spat them out broke.
Every time Iseul believed she understood the system, she found another layer of restrictions designed to squeeze money out of anyone without political backing.
"…Damn," Iseul muttered hoarsely.
But she read all of it.
Every word. Every footnote. Every buried clause designed to squeeze money out of the desperate.
She rubbed her bloodshot eyes, wincing as the irritation flared.
It was quite annoying to look through some pages filled with nonsense and ridiculous fake fees.
"Soiled gutterrats scammers," Iseul cursed, gritting her teeth in anger at another scan payment pop-up.
Hour after hour, she cross-referenced rules. She pulled archived cases, dug through buried forums, and cracked open sealed documentation threads that most people didn't even know existed.
Her vision was blurred, but her brain was buzzing—not from exhaustion, but from the realization that the all-nighter had been worth it.
What she'd found was big.
Huge, actually.
The Tinker Organization wasn't nearly as closed off as people believed—not if you knew how to read between the regulations.
The tinker licensing process wasn't as impossible as she'd feared. It was just buried under so much red tape that most people gave up before they even started.
But it had been really worth it.
As long as she passed the online theoretical exam, submitted her mental capacity rating, and uploaded her gift strength profile with an official Bureau stamp, she could enter the registration pipeline immediately.
From there, approval could take anywhere from a few minutes to twenty-four hours. It depended on how overloaded the Bureau servers were.
Which meant…
If she moved fast, she could legally become licensed by tomorrow.
A smile played on her lips. It was quite unexpected, but highly convenient.
Her fingers trembled slightly with excitement.
Iseul flicked through the final checklist, adrenaline fighting off exhaustion.
Though the Tinker Licensing system was more complicated than she'd expected, it was not impossible.
The pass rate sat at forty-eight percent—not great, not terrible.
The biggest hurdle wasn't intelligence or technical skill—it was mental energy. Most applicants burned out before finishing the virtual practical exam. They were unable to maintain stable control long enough to complete a graded creation.
However… her gaze lingered on the numbers. Applicants with a mental rank of C+ and above were almost always approved as long as they finished the test.
Thankfully, she had B ranked mental strength. So that wouldn't be a roadblock.
The online written portion was trivial. The real filter was the virtual build phase.
And that? That was where Iseul thrived.
She's always had a knack for building things. Even in her classes: Mechanics, robotics, concepts into control systems, and introduction to crafting and understanding the neurological neuron wave systems.
She scored quite high in all those classes.
"As long as my energy holds…" she murmured, scrolling through the fine print, drumming her fingers on the desk.
Once the exam and mental-energy profile were submitted, approval time ranged from a few minutes to twenty-four hours.
The Tinker Bureau Administration Department ran automated and manual filters to verify identity, mental signature, and design legality.
The only real wildcard was her Creator Signature.
A basic, mass-produced signature could be issued quickly. But it was weak, easy to spoof, and vulnerable to tracing.
A custom signature was different. It carried her unique mental and gift imprint.
But custom ones required special materials, calibration, engraving, and licensing fees. Sometimes hours, sometimes days, depending on urgency.
Normally, Iseul wouldn't even consider fast-tracking something that expensive.
But nothing about her situation was normal anymore.
By the time she finally leaned back in her chair, her eyes itchy, overworked, and swollen like they'd been sandblasted.
'My application would be pushed into the Tinker Organization's Bureau Administration Department queue,' Iseul analyzed carefully after processing the information gathered.
From there?
Approval time ranged from a few minutes to twenty-four hours if nothing triggered their filters.
No interviews.
No in-person vetting.
No background investigation unless something looked suspicious.
Which, honestly, made sense—the system was built to process tens of thousands of low-to-high tier gifters every month.
Iseul leaned forward, licking her lips, focus locked in.
"Okay… so that part's doable."
Iseul rolled her neck, sore from sitting in the same position for extended periods. Bags hung under her eyes like weighted dumbbells.
She forced her eyes to stay open, sighing deeply with exhaustion. Still looking over the newly gathered information in front of her.
Actually, the real problem wasn't the license.
It was crafting a good Signature.
A proper registered Creator Signature was worlds apart from a basic tinker that could be copied by an illegal mech builder.
Without it, every creation she made was automatically flagged as a potential rogue construct.
Exactly the category all her creations were sitting in, whether AI or an ordinary object.
And there were only two ways to get one:
• The basic signature, mass-produced and cheap.
• Or a custom-designed signature, tied uniquely to the creator's neural pattern and gift frequency.
The basic one could be issued within hours.
The custom one… that depended on materials, imprint stability, and processing load.
If you paid for priority fabrication, it could take a day. If you didn't, it could take several.
Iseul clicked her tongue.
"I need it fast."
The custom signature was safer, harder to forge, and less likely to be overridden or hacked.
And most importantly—it would permanently bind Loadon to her in the system, making him untouchable by bounty hunters and inspection teams.
But it was also expensive.
Urgent fabrication fees.
Imprint calibration.
Material stabilization.
All of it would add up.
And she had some decent funds on hand to use wisely, with a bit of penny-pinching—not the random kind of money you can have just lying around.
Iseul slumped back in her chair, staring at the floating application window.
So the path was clear—just not cheap.
First, she had to pass the exams.
No backing out now.