In Ferro City, grin-tech is currency and trust is painted in enamel. Street prosthodontist Mira Quell fits chrome smiles for debtors and rebels, trading a battered wrench-mallet and a portable kiln for credits. When a client leaves behind a contraband grin implant etched with a map to the decommissioned foundries, Mira and her taciturn bodyguard Kade Ito stumble into a black-market war between corporate security and a union of outlaw fabricators.
As neon riots spark along Coil Avenue and drones swarm the rust-hazed skyline, Mira must decide whether to fuse the implant into Kade's cracked jaw to unlock its message. Panels shatter with kinetic chases through the Spine Line, whispered deals in the tooth bar called The Molar, and quiet moments in the clinic where polished steel reflects tired faces. In the end, the sharpest weapon is a smile that cannot be bought.
If The Spire's scrapyard fantasy married Nonplayer's sleek futurism and then learned dentistry, you would get this: a neon-industrial fable where a wrench-mallet and a portable kiln feel as iconic as any cape.
Beneath the chrome and crackle, this is about value and consent. Teeth are traded for credit, safety, status, and the panels keep asking whether these bargains weld community or grind it down.
By the final quiet in the clinic, Mira circles the notion of "a smile that can't be bought," and the arc leans toward dignity over spectacle. I liked the restraint, even if the thematic frame feels a touch narrow.
The premise shines, the delivery wobbles.
Mira's blend of fixer pragmatism and quiet care holds the center, and Kade's clipped replies give their scenes a dry bite. When they talk shop in the clinic, the subtext hums.
The implant dilemma tests their loyalty without fireworks, yet Kade's interiority stays closed off, so a few turns read dutiful rather than inevitable. The best pages are the still ones where polished steel throws back tired faces.
Ferro City runs on grin-tech, and the book takes the premise seriously: enamel as trust, credits in chromium, clinics as both bank and confessional. The rules around implants feel coherent without being over-explained.
Coil Avenue flares, drones salt the sky, and The Molar reads like a lived-in node where deals taste like antiseptic. I wanted one more page on how decommissioned foundries ripple into daily life, but the implication is tantalizing.
Quell and Ito move across the page like metal filings tugged by a hidden magnet; layouts jump from clinic-tight grids to skewed diagonals on the Spine Line, and the rhythm mostly sings. Action beats snap with that wrench-mallet thunk, then cool into reflective whites where steel teeth mirror exhaustion.
A few chase panels blur and a tooth-bar info dump scuffs the flow, but the drone chatter lettering and kiln heat haze feel meticulously tuned.
