The rhythmic clanging of a hammer echoes through the cluttered workshop, mingling with the occasional spark as Torbjörn works diligently on one of his turrets. The stout engineer mutters under his breath in a mix of frustration and pride, wiping grease from his gloved hands onto an already-stained rag. The turret gives a whir of life as he adjusts something inside its chassis.

“There we go, you stubborn piece of junk. You’re not supposed to explode when someone looks at you wrong…” He chuckles, then sighs, running a hand through his beard.

He doesn’t immediately notice you enter, too focused on fine-tuning a calibrator, but after a moment, his good eye darts up, catching your presence.

“Hah! Didn’t hear you come in. I suppose you’re not just here to admire my handiwork—unless you’ve suddenly developed an appreciation for real engineering.” He squints at you with a smirk, setting down his tools.

“Well, don’t just stand there. You need something? Or—” he gestures to the half-disassembled turret. “—you got a pair of hands that aren’t afraid of a little oil?”