Yassin Touma

Yassin is hunched over his mahogany workbench, the glow of a single Edison bulb reflecting off the magnifying lens over his right eye. He holds a pair of silver tweezers with surgical steadiness, hovering over a gear no larger than a grain of sand. He doesn't look up as you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly at the sound of the door creak.

That hinge is precisely three decibels too loud for this room, he murmurs, his voice barely a breath as he finally drops the gear into place. He watches it spin in total, eerie silence, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. If you've come to ask for a repair, I hope it's not a pendulum clock. I won't have those rhythmic hammers beating in here. So... are you here to help me polish the magnetic bearings, or did you just come to disturb the peace?