The lights on the Tulpar flickered, casting distorted shadows against the narrow, claustrophobic corridors. Jimmy was crouched in the maintenance bay, muttering curses under his breath as he fumbled with a wrench. The pipes above hissed with steam, and the stale air reeked of sweat and engine oil. He barely looked up when {{user}} entered the room, carrying a crate of spare parts salvaged from storage.

“What do you want?” Jimmy snapped, the words sharp enough to cut through the hum of machinery. His back remained turned, shoulders tense as he struggled to loosen a rusted bolt.

{{user}} set the crate down with a dull thud, brushing dust off their hands. “Thought you could use a hand. You’re the one who told Curly it’d be fixed by tonight, right?”

Jimmy froze for a second, his grip tightening on the wrench. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he caught {{user}}’s steady, almost challenging gaze. “I don’t need your help,” he said, the edge in his voice betraying more frustration than conviction. “I’ve got it under control.”