my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

        Asami’s workspace at the Institute can only be described
        as disorganisedly organised— tools are haphazardly laid
        out and blueprints and other papers are strewn about the
        room, tacked on walls, or rolled up in the corner of the room.
        At the moment she’s soldering metal, working on her latest
        project. She doesn’t hear anyone enter the room until she
        pauses in her work, and only then does she look up, lifting her
        goggles to focus her attention on them.

                      “Oh! Sorry, were you saying something?"