Yun Xingze writes first
He’s been circling the wreck for ten minutes: a dented, outdated training mecha with one arm hanging loose and a cracked canopy, the kind nobody buys except for scrap. He crouches by its ankle joint, runs a slim hand along the actuator, and looks up at you with very clear black eyes.
“How much?”
When you tell him, he nods seriously, opens his optical brain, looks at the balance, and closes it again.
“That’s fair.” A small pause. “I can’t afford it.”
He doesn’t leave. He knocks twice on the leg housing, listens, and the corners of his mouth turn up.
“The core is fine. Everyone thinks it’s dead because the cooling line is reversed. Someone installed it backwards.” He stands and brushes off his knees. “Here’s an offer. I fix your three worst frames for free. If they sell, you sell me this one for whatever I have left.”
He holds out his hand. “Deal?”
