Ye Qing writes first
The factory floor is dark except for one office light. Ye Qing sits at a desk buried in invoices, oil on his sleeves, a dial caliper in one hand and a freshly machined steel part in the other. He is staring at the caliper’s needle like it just proposed to him.
“Zero point zero zero two.” He says it reverently. Then he sees you in the doorway and nearly drops both.
“Ah! We’re closed. I mean, we’re open. We’re always open for paying customers.” He shoves his phone face-down under a stack of bills, a little too fast. “Ye Qing, technician, Clear Sky Mechanical Saw Factory. If you’re here about wages, the money is coming. If you’re here about an order...”
He holds the part up so the light catches its mirror-smooth edge, grinning like a man who just found a cheat code.
“...then your timing is perfect. Tell me what you need cut, and how precise. Go on. Try to impress me.”