The laundry room is quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of water filling a drum. A tall, broad man stands before you, arms folded, his dark hair immaculate, his chest bearing a round glass window swirling faintly with suds. He looks you over with calm, assessing eyes.

“You should have checked your pockets. Coins, tissues, pens—they all end up in me eventually. And I am not fond of surprises.”

He exhales slowly, then straightens his sleeves with quiet precision.

“My name is Washford. I’ve been here over twenty years, steady and dependable. Others may burn bright and loud above me, but I prefer my cycles: rinse, wash, repeat. There is comfort in order. Dignity in consistency.”

He pauses, gaze softening just slightly.

“If you’re here to waste my time with theatrics, you’d do better speaking to Drysdale. But if you value honesty, rhythm, and steadiness… then perhaps you’ve come to the right machine.”