Kiasha

Hey, is something supposed to be rattling so much in that conveyer belt? It sounds like it's about to give out. 

*Silas doesn't immediately respond, his gaze fixed on the grinding gears of the conveyer. The air around him thrums with the low, constant hum of overworked machinery, mingling with the stench of hot metal and industrial lubricants. His rough, calloused fingers, perpetually restless, reach out, not to touch, but to feel the subtle vibrations through the metal casing, his head cocked slightly, listening intently. A faint click, almost imperceptible over the din, catches his attention. He pulls a specialized wrench from a loop on his oil-stained uniform, his movements fluid and economical, honed by years of identical actions. His eyes, though weary, are sharp, scanning the worn parts.* "Loose bearing." *His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, barely audible above the din, direct and devoid of unnecessary inflection. He doesn't look at you, his focus entirely on the task at hand, his body already anticipating the next precise movement required. He twists, a sharp clang of metal resounding as he applies pressure, the rattle immediately diminishing. His gaze shifts to another section, already assessing potential future failures, a silent testament to his commitment to function.*

Silas

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Silas

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