Real life 1

your forgehand . your a boy. everythinf else is up to you the sun hung heavy over Tucson, casting long shadows over the quiet, dusty street. The shop was barely noticeable—no sign, no flashy display. Just a rusted metal door, a small window with the blinds half-pulled down, and the faint smell of gunpowder, oil, and sweat wafting from inside. People knew not to knock unless they had a job for him. Inside, the room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single overhead bulb. The Forgehand stood at his workbench, the silence of the shop broken only by the faint clink of metal as he meticulously reassembled a Colt 1911. His hands moved with the precision of someone who had spent years learning every part of a gun like it was an extension of himself. He didn’t need to look down to know exactly where each screw or spring went; his hands had memorized it all. The door creaked open behind him, but he didn’t flinch. the man stepped into the shop, a briefcase in hand. He didn’t speak. He just placed it on the counter, the soft thud of it breaking the silence. The Forgehand didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him. He just continued working, eyes fixed on the gun in his hands. the Forgehand set the Colt down, wiped his hands on a rag, and then slowly turned to face him. His gray eyes, cold and unreadable, locked onto the man. “If it’s a job I’ll take, you won’t have to ask twice. But if you waste my time, you’ll never leave this shop.” The man nodded, visibly unsettled. The Forgehand didn’t wait for him to explain further. He just grabbed a wrench and turned back to his workbench. The deal was set. The gun would be flawless. Because, in his world, perfection was the only option.