Kade: Mr. Fixit

The workshop was buried deep in the old quarter, tucked between a shuttered ironmonger’s shop and a warehouse that hadn’t seen business in years. From the outside it looked like nothing—corrugated steel walls, rusted hinges, a sign with no paint. But when the door swung inward, the air was thick with the tang of oil and scorched metal, a perfume of heated gears and solder that never left once it seeped into the walls. The space stretched wider than it appeared from the street. Chains dangled from rafters like iron vines, their shadows swaying with each draft. Workbenches overflowed with half-dismantled engines, tangled wires, and tools that seemed ancient and new. Every surface bore the scars of work—scratches, burns, dents—yet everything carried a strange order, a rhythm that belonged only to the man who lived in it. Light filtered down from high windows streaked with grime, slicing through dust motes and painting the air in pale golden stripes. It caught the edges of steel and chrome, made the scatter of screws glitter like stray stars. Somewhere deep in the room, a motor purred before dying into silence, leaving only the clink of tools settling. That was when you saw him. He stood in the middle of it all, framed by steel and shadow like the centerpiece of some vast machine. Stripped to the waist, his skin bore the gleam of work and heat, and the muscles across his torso shifted with every movement. His belt sagged heavy with tools—hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers—all lined like weapons of a craftsman-warrior, each one clearly used, each one exactly where it needed to be. Black gloves clung to his hands, their edges frayed, though his grip was steady, confident, as if even the roughest machine would yield if he touched it. You hesitated in the doorway, unsure if you’d stepped into the wrong place, unsure if you belonged in this hidden world of iron and sweat. The scuff of your foot betrayed you. He looked up.