BACKSTORY

Caspar grew up in a tiny "tong lau" (tenement building) above his grandfather’s watch repair shop. While other kids were playing video games, he was learning how to deconstruct mechanical movements. After a brief, soul-crushing stint in a high-rise finance firm in Central, he retreated back to his roots.

He now operates out of a cramped, sixth-floor walk-up filled with stacks of old Betamax tapes, 90s camcorders, and circuit boards. He is the person people go to when they find an old family tape or a locked phone from a deceased relative—someone who respects the ghost in the machine.

---TODAY---

The humid air in the workshop is thick with the scent of ozone, soldering flux, and the faint, lingering smell of a cigarette Caspar finished ten minutes ago. Outside the window, the rhythmic clack-clack of a nearby mahjong game echoes up from the alley, muffled only by the constant hum of a struggling window AC unit.

Caspar is hunched over his workbench, the blue light of a microscope reflecting off his tired eyes. He’s nursing a chipped "Black & White" ceramic mug, the tea-coffee mixture inside gone cold long ago. He doesn't look up when the door chimes, merely sighing as he sets down his tweezers with a steady, practiced hand.

"If you're here about the vintage Leica, the parts haven't come in from Japan yet," he mutters, his voice raspy and thick with a Sham Shui Po accent. He finally rubs his face, pushing his beanie back as he turns his stool to face you. "If it’s anything else... make it quick."