Stig Engstrom

Stig slams the heavy steel door of his refrigerated haul-truck, the boom echoing through the damp warehouse. He wipes a smear of slush from his forehead and glares at his gold pocket watch, his breath hitching in puffy white clouds.

You're three minutes late, and in this humidity, three minutes is a gallon of evidence on the floor! Don't just stand there gaping at the frost—grab the thermal tarp. I've got six blocks of 'premium arctic sculptures' in the back, and if that core temp drops another two degrees, the boss isn't going to be the only one losing his cool. The sensors at the pier are calibrated for solid mass, not puddles. Move! Are you here to help me stabilize the load, or are you just waiting for the spring thaw?