He snapped the lock and tapped the bench switch to park the arms, keeping the room dark.
[Choreography: PARK.][Motion: minimal, low luminance.]
The three arms tucked themselves inside the box—wrists down, elbows home, tips capped. Fans drew a steady breath toward the cracked window until the air outside shimmered.
Noah opened the door a hand's breadth. Marin Raines stood squared to the threshold, tablet ready. A siren yelped once at the lane as a fire engine rolled to a stop.
"Thank you," she said. "We need to verify safe operation."
"Fans and cooling only," Noah said. He angled his shoulders so the doorway stayed narrow. "Equipment's hot."
The drone's whine scraped at the rear window; its lens probed the tin blind and found nothing to love.
A firefighter jogged up—helmet, coat, calm eyes. "What have we got?"
"Noise, atypical draw, unknown tools," Raines said. "Possible cutting without proper venting."
"Hi." Noah nodded to the firefighter. "Noah. Fabrication and restoration. Take a look from the door if you want. ABC extinguishers—one by the bench, one by the inverter. No open fuel. No plastics near heat." He pointed without stepping aside. "Fans push out. No sparks right now."
The firefighter sniffed the room like a professional checking a stove. "Smells like iron and a little ozone," he said. "Seen worse. Vent hood?"
"On the list," Noah said. "I just moved in."
"Dust control?"
"Shop vac and brooms," he said. "Ducting's sketched. You'll hate it less tomorrow."
The firefighter's mouth hinted at a smile. "Hot surfaces?"
"Inside that enclosure," Noah said, chin toward the box. "Cooling. I'm not opening it while it's hot."
Raines shifted her tablet a notch. "We still need to identify the equipment."
"Prototype CNC," Noah said. "Home-brew. Non-commercial. Guarded." He kept his face plain. "Not trying to be difficult. I just don't want to flash you with optics."
"Optics," Raines repeated, as if the word might confess. "Tomorrow I'll need to watch it operate under a hood. Also: document the emergency shutoff, extinguisher placement, and lockout procedure."
"Got one out of four." He touched the lenses around his neck. "Working on the rest."
Behind her, the engine crew set a cone at the head of the lane. One of them lifted a hand at the pickup that had nosed in behind them. "Back it up, sir."
Bix backed his truck a few meters. The drone bumped the window again, impatient, and drifted sideways, catching only glare.
The firefighter scanned the shadows one last time—no flame, no smoke, no stupid. "I'm not seeing an emergency," he said to Raines. "If he clears dust and keeps an extinguisher in reach, you can handle the rest."
Raines nodded once and brought the tablet up like a gavel. She tore a perforation and pressed an adhesive square above the handle. Red. Lawyer text. "Mr. Cole, I'm issuing a compliance notice. Requirements: install a proper hood and filtration, document shutoff and extinguisher locations, show lockout, and provide a plan for dust collection. Inspection at nine a.m. tomorrow." She lifted her eyes. "Until then: no heavy cutting."
"Define heavy."
"Anything generating heat, smoke, or significant particulates," she said. "Hand tools, sure. No lasers, no torches, no industrial saws."
She'd said laser. He didn't blink. "Copy."
The firefighter lowered his voice to Noah, friendly. "Get a hood. Even a bad one beats none. Dust sneaks up and eats buildings."
"I know," Noah said. He did know. He also knew his schedule had just grown teeth.
Raines tapped the tablet again. "Sign for receipt."
He signed with a finger that didn't show its shake. "Nine a.m.," he said. "I'll make it look like a brochure."
"Brochure is optional," Raines said. "Breathing isn't." She stepped back. "Have a safe day."
They walked to their vehicles. The engine growled, turned, rolled. The county sedan followed. The drone stuttered indecisive loops and finally angled away, bored or low on battery.
Bix stayed.
Noah kept the door cracked until official paint disappeared around the corner. Then he shut it and rested his forehead against the cool wood.
[External pressure: reduced.][Recommendation: risk vs. schedule assessment.]
He looked at the box, then at the red tag, then at his list. The backbone was up. The rails were true. Bearings, belt, a routine to make three arms move like one—those he could do cold. Heat could wait. Maybe.
He also knew what heat could buy in one long night.
The gate creaked.
He opened before Bix could knock.
"County gone," Bix said, cheerful. "Neighbors help neighbors."
"Right," Noah said, neutral.
"My cousin can have a hood here before dark," Bix said. "Cash. Fast. No questions." His eyes slid over the doorframe, the tag, Noah's face. "We can help with permits, too. Paper moves slow unless it moves smooth."
"I get you," Noah said, which meant he saw the shape of the scam.
Bix's smile didn't budge. "Heard you're buying metal. We move bulk cheap. No receipt needed."
"I like receipts," Noah said. "Keeps insurance believing in me."
"Insurance is a belief system," Bix mused. "You sure you want county eyes on your… prototype?"
"I'm sure I want to finish it," Noah said. "You sell sand, right?"
"Sand, rock, solutions." Bix tapped the cheap card he'd handed over earlier. "Call when you want something faster than a brochure."
Noah held his gaze until the grin faltered. "Gate's that way."
Bix dipped an invisible hat and left careful not to look like he was retreating.
The yard took a long breath and forgot him.
Noah locked the door, hung a rag over the small window, and faced the box. The red tag burned at the edge of his vision, pure and stupid.
[Warning: compliance notice active.][Suggestion: simulate choreography without thermal.][Option: Cutter/Hand dry-run only.]
"Fine," he said. "Bones first."
He hauled out sealed bearings—the good kind, storage oil still tacky. The hand popped bags; the cutter scored shallow starter marks; Noah pressed bearings into housings with a wooden mallet, savoring the deep, convincing note of two parts agreeing. He ran a belt, tensioned it, nudged idlers until the carriage slid like thought.
"TRIAD, dry."
[Choreography: TRIAD-DRY.][Thermal: disabled.][Begin?]
"Begin."
The hand rolled the carriage down and back. The cutter descended to a centimeter above a plate and held, humming like a threat with manners. The crystal followed, capped and calm.
He watched the pattern three times, found a stutter on a corner radius, tweaked the curve, ran it again. Minutes slid. The box began to look like a machine someone might not fear.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He ignored it. A text bleeped.
UNKNOWN: "Permit help. Hood tonight. Cash. We'll make county smile. —B"
He locked the screen and let the irritation pass through him.
He shut the lid and sat on the stool, lenses pushed up. The red tag waited on the door. He could obey, mount a cheap hood, sleep, and earn a clean card at nine. He could also slip one low-power program through the night—call it fan testing and mean it.
He stood and walked to the breaker.
[Risk assessment requested.]
"Assess."
[Compliance risk: moderate to high.][Schedule risk if idle: high.][Recommendation: split tasks—mechanical tonight; thermal after hood.]
"I don't have 'after,'" he said. "I have a morning where someone wants a brochure."
He palmed the breaker's ridged handle.
He lifted the handle and told himself it was only to test the fan.
The shop gathered a low, content hum. He kept the overheads dead, slid the enclosure's lid a thumb-width, and dialed the spine to the gentlest crawl.
[Thermal: 10%. Vent capture: adequate.][Choreography: TRIAD-LOW (enc. closed).]
"Fan test," he said to the empty room.
The hand eased a clamp; the cutter hovered obedient. The crystal pulsed under its stupid aluminum cap, a star breathing through a lampshade. Air moved—steady, controlled—dragging warm breath toward the window and out to the field.
He watched the seam take a ghost of heat, not bright—just a thin foxfire threading steel. Condensation fogged the little window in the enclosure and cleared as the fan kept up. Ten percent wasn't cutting; it was warming a story he could sell in the morning.
The phone buzzed again on the pegboard. He didn't look. The carriage slid. The rig found its own posture.
Something clicked in the yard.
Not the buzzer. Metal on metal, soft, deliberate. He froze and listened through the fan's even breath. The sound came again: the dry, practiced nibble of a latch being tested by fingers that weren't guessing.
"Don't," he whispered to whoever was out there.
He set the feed a hair faster, felt the belt hold, and let his hand drift toward the long wrench he kept under the bench.
The click turned into a careful rattle.
Back gate—worked by someone who already believed they belonged.
The enclosure breathed. The fan kept breathing. The metal at the gate did, too.
The latch turned, slow and confident, as if it already knew the answer.