Ryu – 9 years and 11 months
I don't meet the old man because of fate or destiny.
I meet him because a bolt shears in half.
"Hold that," Haim grunts.
I steady the motor housing while he leans in, squinting at the broken piece.
The bolt is thick, industrial, supposed to handle more abuse than most humans. The break is clean and ugly at the same time.
"Cheap metal," Haim mutters. "Or someone overtightened it. Or both."
"Can we replace it from the stock?" I ask.
He digs through a box of spares, comes up with three wrong sizes and one that almost fits.
"Almost doesn't keep the machine from falling apart," he says. "We need a proper piece. Good steel, right thread, right head."
"From where?" I ask. "Market?"
"Market sells toys," he says. "We need tools. Real ones."
He wipes his hands on a rag, then looks at me.
"You remember that old shop near the main road?" he asks. "The one no one goes into unless they already know what they're looking for?"
A small knot tightens under my ribs.
"The one with the faded sign and the grumpy door?" I say.
"That's the one," he says. "Owner's an ass, but his stock is good. He'll have what we need, or he'll tell you who does."
"And you want me to go," I say.
"Your legs work," Haim says. "And he hates my face. Says I talk too much."
"You do," I say.
"Get out," he says, but his mouth twitches.
He scribbles a few numbers and letters on a scrap of paper. Thread size, length, material. He presses it into my hand along with coins wrapped in cloth.
"Don't let him talk you into buying some 'improved' nonsense," Haim says. "We want steel, not philosophy."
"Got it," I say. "Hardware, not enlightenment."
"Take the broken bolt with you," he adds. "He'll want to see it."
I drop it into my pocket. It drags my pants down on that side. Heavy. Solid.
Not like me. Yet.
The shop sits a few streets off the main road, where the noise fades and the buildings get older in a different way. Not broken. Just… settled. Like they've agreed to be here and nowhere else.
The sign over the door is so faded it's basically a memory. Letters half-peeled, wood cracked.
The door looks like it could outlive the city.
I stand outside for a moment, watching the place.
People walk past without glancing at it. The few who do look have a certain face: tired, focused, already knowing what they're after.
No random customers. No browsers.
Old bastard. Fought in a place where floors go up forever. Air gets thin.
Kain's words replay in my head.
I push the door open.
A small bell rings. Not the cheerful kind. More "I know you're here, don't steal anything."
The air smells like metal, oil, dust, and something sharp I can't name.
The shop is deeper than it looks from outside. Shelves line the walls, full of boxes, tools, coils of cable, things that look like they belong in another century.
A counter sits near the back, scarred wood with burn marks. Behind it: more shelves. Tools hung in neat rows. No decoration. No junk.
And him.
He's older without being fragile. Hair mostly grey, short and messy but not neglected. Lines in his face like someone carved them with patience. Eyes half-lidded, but they miss nothing.
He's reading a small, battered book when I come in. Doesn't look up immediately.
I step closer. My feet are louder than usual on the floorboards.
He turns the page. Then, without looking, he says:
"You're too light for that door to creak that much."
His voice is dry. Not unfriendly. Not friendly.
"Door's dramatic," I say. "Likes attention."
Now he looks up.
His eyes are… clear. That's the first thing. Not dull, not watery, not tired. Clear like cold water.
They flick over me once. Head to feet. Then back up. Not lingering on my face. More on where my weight sits, where my hands hang, how my feet are placed.
It's the same scan Kain does, but tighter. Faster. Colder.
"Whose boy?" he asks.
"Mine," I say automatically, then correct myself. "Haim's. From the workshop near the canal."
He snorts softly, like that answer amuses him.
"He still trying to keep the city running with scraps and willpower?" he asks.
"Mostly willpower," I say. "Scraps help."
He closes the book, marks his place with a bit of wire.
"What does he want?" he asks.
I pull the broken bolt from my pocket and set it on the counter. Then I slide the paper over.
"Replacement," I say. "Same size, good steel. Not fancy. Not brittle."
He picks up the bolt.
His fingers are interesting. They don't look big or heavily calloused. But they move like they already know the shape of everything they touch.
He rolls the bolt between thumb and forefinger. Taps the fracture line with a nail. The sound is dull.
"Trash," he says.
"Machine seemed to agree," I say.
He glances at the note. Grunts.
"I've got better," he says. "Costs more."
"Haim said you'd say that," I reply. "He also said 'we want steel, not philosophy.'"
One corner of his mouth twitches.
"He's still rude," he says. "Good."
He turns and walks into the shelves without telling me to wait. I stay where I am. Moving around this place without permission feels like provocation.
From behind the shelves, I hear the clink of metal, the soft rasp of boxes sliding, the heavy thunk of something set down.
I let my eyes wander. Not too obviously.
Tools lined up in exact rows. Not military neat, but precise. Everything looks used and well-kept, not shiny-new.
On one wall, there's a section of the floor that looks slightly more worn. Footprints, over years. A spot where people stand often.
The air in that part of the room feels… tighter. Like the space itself remembers something.
He comes back with a small box, sets it on the counter, and opens it.
Inside: bolts. Shiny. He pulls one out, checks it against the broken one. Length, thread, head. It matches.
He snaps it lightly against the counter.
The sound is sharper than before.
"This won't break the same way," he says.
"What way will it break?" I ask.
"If it breaks, it'll scream first," he says. "Plenty of warning. Tell Haim to stop letting idiots overtighten things."
"I'll pass along the sermon," I say.
He bags up a few bolts, weighs them, names a price.
I count out coins, place them on the counter. My hand is steady. His eyes flick down, then back up.
"You carry heavy for your size," he says suddenly.
I blink.
"I work in a workshop," I say. "Things are heavy there. If I don't carry, they fall on my head."
"Most kids your age avoid heavy," he says. "They slouch. You don't."
"Bad for balance," I say before I can stop myself.
He hums. Not a real word. Just a sound like "I noticed that."
"You fight?" he asks, like he's asking if I drink water.
"Sometimes," I say carefully. "Mostly not by choice."
"Good answer," he says.
He steps out from behind the counter.
I try not to stiffen. Failing, probably.
Up close, he isn't taller than Kain by much, but he feels bigger. Not in muscle. In… presence. Like the space around him is part of him and he trusts it.
"Hand," he says.
I show him my right without thinking. He takes it, turns it palm up. Fingers trace old scabs on the knuckles, the faint roughness starting along the base.
"Not factory hands," he says. "Not yet. Not pure street either."
He lets go.
"Walk over there," he says, nodding at the worn patch of floor. "Then back."
"Looking for squeaky boards?" I ask.
"Looking at squeaky you," he says.
I could say no.
But I'm here because of this. This exact thing. The idea that someone like him exists. That there's a next level of structure.
So I walk.
Normal pace. Not trying to impress. Not dragging my feet either. Just… me.
Turn. Walk back.
His gaze never leaves my legs. Not my face. Not my hands.
When I stop in front of him again, he's quiet for a second.
"Who's been teaching you?" he asks.
"Two guys who hang around bad alleys," I say. "They're very opinionated about footwork and not dying."
"Names?" he asks.
"Kain and Bruk," I say.
Something changes behind his eyes. Not surprise. Recognition… adjacent.
"They still breathing?" he asks.
"For now," I say. "They complain a lot, which I think is a sign of life."
He snorts, a short, real sound.
"Tell Kain his stance is still too heavy on the front foot," he says. "He won't listen, but it'll annoy him."
"You know him," I say.
"I know the type," he says. "He probably mentioned me."
"An old bastard," I say. "Direct quote."
"Honest," he says. "Annoying, but honest."
He returns to the counter, puts the book back exactly where it was, spine down, page marked.
"You're early," he says.
"For what?" I ask.
"For standing the way you do," he says. "For looking at exits before products. For not flinching when doors slam."
I shrug one shoulder.
"It was that or get turned into background noise," I say.
He studies me for another few seconds.
"Come back in a year," he says finally. "If you're still alive. If you're still walking straight."
My heart does a weird lurch.
"For… more bolts?" I ask, playing dumb.
"For whatever you think you're chasing," he says. "Right now your bones and tendons are still lying to you. They'll be less honest at ten, but more stable."
"If I come back earlier?" I ask.
He shrugs. "I'll sell you things. And tell you to leave."
"That worth testing?" I say.
"Depends how much you like being disappointed," he says.
I nod slowly.
"I'll tell Haim you insulted both his face and his bolts," I say. "He'll be touched."
"He'll swear," the old man says. "That's how he says thank you."
Outside, the street feels… flatter, somehow.
The shop door closes behind me with a solid click. The bell rings again. It sounds less annoyed this time, or maybe I'm imagining it.
I hold the bag of bolts in one hand, feel the weight. Real metal. Reliable. Not flashy.
The man inside is the opposite: nothing flashy on the surface, everything sharp underneath.
He moved like he'd already mapped out every step I could take in that room and hadn't decided yet which ones he'd allow.
Ex–Heaven's Arena fighter. Seen things, left for a quiet corner.
At nine, almost ten, I'm a curiosity to him. A kid with decent footwork and a head that doesn't tilt the wrong way.
In a year, I might be a project.
If I make it that far.
I start walking back toward the workshop, bolts clinking softly in the bag.
Stage one: survive.Stage two: refine.
I've just shaken hands with stage two.
He didn't crush my fingers.
That feels like a good sign.