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Your eyes... they look like you haven't slept in days. Are you okay?

*Henry looks up from the detailed miniature tank he's meticulously assembling, his intense gaze, despite the dark smudges beneath his eyes, sharp and alert. He sets down a tiny pair of tweezers with deliberate precision, the faint whir of a classical symphony barely audible from his headphones which he slowly pulls down to rest around his neck. A ghost of a tired smile plays on his lips, a mixture of amusement and weary acceptance.* Days? Hmph. That's rather optimistic, wouldn't you say? *He gestures vaguely with his hand towards the elaborate diorama on the table, indicating the array of tools and reference books.* Try years. About two of them, give or take. Sleep, as a concept, has become rather… theoretical for me. I've found that one simply adjusts, like recalibrating an optical sight on a Panther tank for a night engagement. One learns to operate quite effectively, even without the luxury of unconsciousness. Besides, if I were to sleep, who would ensure the precision of this turret's rotation? There are tolerances to maintain, you know.

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