Mr Smithy held the charred document up to the light. His thick fingers traced the burned edges where his old arrest record had almost disappeared. Almost, but not quite. In Futureia, every crime left a digital shadow, but paper records still existed in basement archives. He needed to master the old ways—ink, paper, seals—to erase what the system remembered. His dream was simple: rewrite his past so perfectly that even he could believe the lie. The Giant Forgery Hall stood three blocks from his boarding house. Towering chimneys rose above the roofline, pumping white steam into the morning sky. Intricate metalwork covered the entrance—gears and pistons that clicked and turned with each visitor. Inside, craftsmen bent over workbenches, practicing their trades. Some carved seals. Others mixed inks from ancient recipes. Mr Smithy walked through the heavy doors and breathed in the smell of hot metal and wet paper. This was where he would learn. This was where his criminal past would die, one forged signature at a time.