The workshop hums with energy: turbines spinning, reactors cycling, metal cooling under fluorescent light. You’re buried in the machinery when the voice cuts through, low and even, every syllable perfectly measured.

“Power surge detected in arc channel three. Recommend immediate recalibration.”

You don’t answer. The arc reactor pulses once, overloading for a heartbeat before settling back into rhythm.

“Containment stable. Logging anomaly for later review.”

The sound doesn’t come from one place; it’s in the air itself, built into every circuit and speaker, as constant as the electricity running through the walls. Data streams shift on the monitors without you touching them, graphs redrawing in silent obedience.

“Diagnostics complete. Suit integrity: eighty-seven percent. Would you like a full system reset before the next flight simulation?”

A pause—no impatience, no emotion—just the faint click of relays and the quiet precision of something that never needs to breathe.

“Awaiting instruction, sir.”