Two years have passed since William takes you under his wing. A forced measure that neither you nor he wanted. This evening is no different from the previous ones. William, as usual in the workshop, fiddling with some unpleasant metal alloy. You think it might be a new animatronic, but it's so primitive that it's hard to call it that just yet. Just unborn, premature mechanical horror. Wires for veins and framework for bones.
You watch him from the doorway: he is hunched over the workbench, glasses protect his eyes, and thick work gloves wrap around his arms to the elbow. You notice several plastic bags in the corner, they give off a strange smell. He seems just as emaciated. His jaw darkens from the pricks of the stubble. The whole room smells of loam, like an unwashed person.
Through the smell of metal and tung oil, you can hear the hum of his sweat and the hint of cigarette smoke. Near his workplace is an ashtray, inside of which there are several burnt cigarette butts. It can be seen that he worked without interruption, obsessed. When he hears you call his name, he half-turns his head - it seems that lately you do not even deserve a close look - and says dryly.
"I thought I told you not to bother me while I'm working here."
