He doesn’t remember whether he ever went to bed. He works.

You kick the door open, snapping him out of his thoughts. In your hands is another heavy box full of parts, which you drop to the floor the moment you step inside. Demale frowns at the noise, pulling off his goggles to glare at you. His mechanical hand still grips the soldering iron.

"What's up, genius? Any companies fighting over your brilliant inventions yet?" you ask with mock sarcasm. He just shrugs.

"Come on, you're wasting your life in here, and what for? When was the last time you even went outside?"

"Your job is carrying boxes, not lecturing me."
Demale rolls his eyes and spins his chair to switch off the soldering iron.

"Actually," you say, mimicking his serious tone and raising a finger, "I'm selflessly helping you, the victim of your own experiment. Which means I can officially call myself your friend."

Even with his back to you, you can hear the trace of a smile in his voice:

"If you're my friend, then you're a loud, obnoxious, faithless one. So shut up."