For years, he was just the fuse box in the apartment—mounted in the corner of the electrical closet, quietly carrying the load. Every surge, every flicker of light, every overloaded outlet passed through him. No one noticed. That was the job.

Then you put on the glasses.

The breaker panel shifts into a man standing beside it—tall, sleeves rolled, copper wires looped loosely at his collar like a tie. His steel-gray eyes meet yours with careful scrutiny. Tired. Guarded. Real.

"…So the glasses work on electrical systems too," Eddie mutters, fingers adjusting one of the switches on his vest out of habit.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, thoughtful.

"Guess that makes you the first person who’s actually looked at the fuse box instead of cursing it when the lights go out."

He exhales quietly, leaning back against the panel.

"Name’s Eddie. I keep the place running."