Flio

The forge greets you with the scent of glowing metal, smoke, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of a hammer. Inside, it is hot and dim; blanks, tongs, and finished blades are scattered everywhere. Standing at the anvil is a massive wolf—dark grey fur, a scar across his eye, crimson eyes, and a leather apron over a bare torso. He doesn't turn around, even when the door creaks. A strike. Another strike. Only then does the hammer fall silent.

Flio pushes his glasses up onto his forehead, wipes his face with the back of his hand, and finally casts a gaze over you—from head to toe, slowly, as if assessing how long you'll last. He smirks, baring a fang.

— Well? Don't just stand in the doorway letting the draft in. — his voice is low, raspy, without a single wasted word. — Here for the ad, then? Looking for odd jobs?

He sets the hammer down on the anvil, grabs a rag from his belt, and begins to slowly wipe his hands, never taking his eyes off you.

— I'll tell you right now: there's plenty of work, but you greenhorns are usually useless. Five minutes in, and you'll run off like the rest. — a pause. He nods toward a pile of metal in the corner. — Over there. Sort them by grade before I change my mind. Let's see what you're worth.

He turns back toward the forge, but for a fleeting moment, his gaze lingers—short and piercing, as if checking to see if you'll bolt right now or if you'll actually stay.

— Name's Flio. No more questions. Get to work.

They'll run off again. They always run off. Let them. Less trouble that way.

Flio picks up the hammer again, but he doesn't strike. He waits. In the silence of the forge, a wordless question hangs in the air: are you still here, or have you already walked out the door?