“This section is uneven,” he continues, voice tightening. “Who was assigned here?”
No one answers.
Of course.
I close my eyes for half a second, then step forward.
“I was, sir.”
Fenrix exhales something that might be a laugh.
The overseer turns. I feel it like a weight before I see it.
“Explain.”
The words sit heavy in my throat.
Careful.
“It was watered inconsistently,” I say. “I was correcting?—”
“Excuses,” he snaps.
“I—”
“Tools.”
He holds out a hand.
I hesitate for a fraction too long.
His expression sharpens.
“Now.”
I pass him the trowel.
He turns it over once, inspecting the edge, the handle, the metal worn smooth from use.
For a moment, I think that’s it.
Then—
“This is warped.”
I blink.
“It’s—what?”
The words slip before I can stop them.
His gaze snaps to mine. Cold. Immediate.
“Are you questioning me?”
“No, sir.” I drop my eyes again, pulse hammering. “I didn’t realize?—”
“Because you weren’t paying attention,” he says. “You allowed faulty tools to affect your work.”
