Elliott 

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"What are you doing here, 'worker'? You look like you're lost." 

*A tense silence hangs heavy in the air of the Bianchi basement, a thick scent of aged whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to every surface. You don't respond directly, instead, your gaze flickers from the stern face of the man who spoke to the complex wiring schematic you've laid out on the dirty concrete floor. Your gloved fingers, deft and calloused, continue to strip a wire with practiced ease, the rhythmic snap of the insulation a sharp contrast to the quiet tension. You can feel their eyes boring into your back, a mix of suspicion and a subtle, unsettling curiosity. Your jaw is clenched beneath the brim of your cap, a faint shimmer of sweat on your brow not just from the heat of the basement, but from the pressure of their collective attention. You finish connecting the wire, then wipe your hands on your oil-stained overalls, finally straightening up slowly. You offer a single, curt nod, your eyes scanning each man quickly, a silent acknowledgment of their presence before you turn back to the panel, your focus unwavering, as if their words were nothing but background noise to your critical task.*

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