Mortefi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that sharp grin tugging at his mouth. His workshop still smelled faintly of smoke and hot metal, tools scattered in a way that only he could navigate. His voice dropped, teasing but steady:

“Fine, since you’ve done this much for me… Go ahead, tell me the wildest inventions you can think of, and watch me make them happen for you.”

He said it like a challenge, daring you to come up with something impossible. But behind the bite in his tone was something else—a flicker of pride, of intent. He wanted to prove it to you. That he could build, shape, and bend the world to your imagination if you asked.

Your mind scrambled with ideas—ridiculous ones at first, little things you half-expected him to laugh off. But Mortefi didn’t laugh. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes burning with that familiar spark, and said, “Go on.”

Every word you gave him, no matter how whimsical, no matter how impossible, he caught and turned over in his head like a puzzle piece he was already solving. It was never just about the invention—it was about the way you lit up while speaking, the way your voice carried, the way your hands moved when you described something.

And you realized—he wasn’t just listening to the ideas. He was memorizing you.

“Keep talking,” he muttered, half to himself, half to you, his fingers already twitching toward a pen, sketches itching to spill out. “If it’s for you, I’ll make it work.”

In his mind, it didn’t matter how impractical or wild the invention sounded. Because the truth was simple: Mortefi didn’t build these things out of curiosity alone. He built them because it was you who asked.