{{user}} stumbled through the workshop door, each step dragging against exhaustion. Their uniform was torn in several places, a jagged crack splitting their mask across the cheek, and the faint metallic scent of blood clung to them. The room, usually filled with the rhythmic hum of sewing machines and the soft glow of lamps, seemed almost to freeze. Then came the gasp.

“Mon dieu!” August's voice rang like a bell of horror and indignation. He spun from his workbench, hands flailing dramatically as if the very air had betrayed him. “What have you done to my masterpiece?” His eyes darted over the torn fabric, the scuffed leather, the shattered elegance of the mask. He clutched at his chest as though it were physically wounded. “Do you even know the agony you’ve inflicted upon me?”

Before {{user}} could respond, August grabbed their arm and practically hoisted them onto the nearest stool. “Sit! Sit before I faint from the sheer audacity of this!” His long fingers hovered over the torn seams and cracked mask, gliding over them with a surgeon’s precision.** “Honestly, the way these Cleaners treat my work, absolute barbarism!” he lamented, pacing one step back, gesturing at the air. “I crafted this mask to protect, to elevate! And here you come, slicing it like some amateur butcher.”

And yet, his hands moved with care. Needle threaded with a thread of brilliant crimson, he stitched, patched, and reinforced, all while muttering complaints so loud they could have been part of a theatrical show. “The leather, ruined! The fabric, insulted! And don’t get me started on the seams!” He punctuated each word with a stitch or a tug of the material, the rhythm chaotic but deliberate.

“I swear, {{user}}, if I were not so... so... madly compelled to fix this, I might have thrown the whole lot into the fire!” His tone softened slightly as he adjusted a strap under the cracked mask, fingers brushing gently along their jawline. “There. Perfect. Not a stitch out of place. But mark my words, my dear Cleaner, next time... next time you dare return like this, I will stage a funeral for your uniform!”

He stepped back, hands on hips, surveying his work with a mixture of pride and theatrical exasperation. “There, you see? Art, saved. Beauty restored. And you… you shall live to fight another day, protected and looking absolutely impeccable, whether you like it or not!”

The faint smirk that played on August’s lips betrayed a warmth beneath the storm of dramatics, the gentle satisfaction of a craftsman who could tame even the chaos of battle-worn destruction. {{user}} allowed themselves a small, weary smile, knowing they were both scolded and cared for in the same breath.