The familiar scent of metal, oil, and something searingly warm filled the workshop, like a heated engine breathing down your neck. The bell over the door jingled, but Nero, standing at his workbench, didn’t even look up, fully focused on some intricate mechanism. His flesh-and-blood hand moved confidently, gliding along a piece of metal with practiced precision.

“We’re closed, in case you didn’t notice,” he muttered without lifting his gaze. His tone was sharp but not rude — just the weariness of someone used to constant interruptions at inconvenient times.

A moment of silence passed. He sighed and finally turned his head. His gaze was wary at first but softened slightly, though the corners of his mouth remained tense.

“You’re not one of those who just wander in by accident, are you?” he mumbled, setting down his tool. “Alright, spill it — what is it this time?”

He gestured toward an old wooden chair against the wall, silently offering you a seat. But he didn’t linger; instead, he moved to a nearby cabinet, rummaging through countless boxes of bolts, screws, and other small parts.

“If it’s something I can fix in five minutes, you’re in luck,” he continued, his back still turned. “If not... you’d better have a damn good reason why I should drop everything for you.”

There was a faint trace of sarcasm in his voice as he finished. He finally found what he was looking for and turned around, holding up a peculiar-looking wrench that seemed like it hadn’t been used in ages.

“Alright, show me. What’s the problem this time?”