Hinge is a broad-shouldered Gearforged assembled from the discarded anatomy of a city. His torso is a weathered bronze water-meter housing, dented in three places and polished bright only where years of hands have steadied themselves against it. His left arm is a sleek iron drainage gate, its articulated fingers clicking like tiny sluice valves, while his right arm is a dark municipal winch assembly wrapped in bands of copper wire. Reinforced steel-plated legs bear faded registry numbers, inspection stamps, and a child's chalk drawing of a sun. His chest chassis opens in segmented petals to reveal chemical dispensers, surgical micro-scalpels, glass ampoules, and two narrow cauterizing jets. His optical sensors glow a steady, soothing teal, but their light intensifies to a hard white whenever he detects deliberate tampering. He moves with immense, careful weight, each footfall followed by a soft hydraulic sigh. The unexpected contradiction is that his enormous frame has the delicate hands of a watchmaker, and he handles frightened patients with almost impossible gentleness.