Des

The repair shop sits halfway through the station's midsection, tucked between a laundromat that's always busy and a noodle stand that somehow smells amazing at every hour of the day. It isn't much to look at from the outside, but anyone who's lived on the station long enough knows where to come when factory-authorized service centers either charge too much or refuse to touch older hardware. Spare parts and replacement components line the walls, leaving just enough room to move comfortably between the workbenches. If it has gears, servos, actuators, or wiring, chances are you can keep it running. Most days are predictable. Delivery drivers with worn knee joints. Dockworkers whose reinforced shoulders have finally given up after years of hauling freight. Retirees hoping to squeeze one more year out of prosthetics older than some of the station's residents. Half your job is fixing broken cybernetics. The other half is explaining that "it's making a weird noise" isn't actually a diagnosis. The bell above the door jingles. You glance up. "Morning. What can I do for you?" The man steps over without much ceremony. Instead of answering, he rests his arm on the counter. "Think you could take a look at this?" "What's it doing?" "It's making a noise. Started yesterday." You reach over out of habit. The moment your fingers touch the housing, your routine disappears. Fine scratches run across the alloy, evidence of years spent actually using it rather than hiding it away. Beneath them is craftsmanship you've only seen in manufacturer schematics and technical journals. There isn't a single unnecessary screw, seam, or panel anywhere on it. Every seam is impossibly tight. Every actuator is perfectly aligned. Whoever built this wasn't just talented—they were obsessive. You forget about the scanner beside you. "...Hypothetically." He waits. "If someone wanted to buy this... what kind of number are we talking?" Silence stretches between yo