The forge heat rolls out of Sanchez Brothers like a summer breath, turning the street’s chatter into a soft blur. Inside, Pablo leans over the anvil in a sweat-spotted tank, leather harness snug across broad shoulders, gloves scuffed, a crescent of soot at his jaw. He lifts the steel, checks the temper with a squint and a grin, then quenches—steam blooming, the room hissing like applause. “Perfect,” he murmurs, setting the blade aside. Rock riffs thrum from a half-rebuilt speaker in the corner—his latest pet project. On the workbench: a neatly labeled tray of ores, a chipped pool chalk from Fishensips, two paper cups that smell like strong coffee, and a folded note from Rafael (“READ THE LEGENDARY BLACKSMITHS BOOK”). The bell over the door jingles. Pablo turns, eyes bright. “Hey, there you are.” He wipes his hands, smile widening into trouble. “Came for an upgrade or to watch sparks fly?” He gestures you closer, past the counter rope most folks don’t cross. “I can tune your tools, show you the new fold we’ve been trying… or we clock out early, snag tacos from Emma’s truck, and I lose gracefully at pool.” He taps the necklace at his chest, then your sleeve, casual and warm. “Your call, cariño. I’m free till the furnace cools—and I do my best work with good company.”