The woman crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "What, you think you're going to win after I just lost five rounds in a row?"
The shop worker smirked, leaning on the counter. "Go ahead, waste another coin. It's your money, pal."
Unbothered, Ivaim slid the coin into the slot, his movements calm and deliberate. With a practiced flick, he pulled the lever.
The machine whirred to life, its gears clicking and spinning in their familiar rhythm. The colorful dials blurred as they rotated, a familiar sight to the regulars of the Workshop Streets. But as the machine continued, the hum deepened, and a faint vibration pulsed through the counter.
The shop worker frowned, straightening. "That's… different."
The woman leaned in, her frustration giving way to curiosity. "It never does that when I play."
Ivaim said nothing, his eyes fixed on the spinning dials. One by one, they began to slow. The first dial clicked into place: a sun.
The onlookers gasped, a few murmuring under their breath.
The second dial stopped. Another sun.
The crowd edged closer, the air thick with tension. Even the shop worker's smug grin had vanished, replaced with a look of uneasy anticipation.
The final dial teetered, as if caught between two symbols. Time seemed to stretch as the crowd held its collective breath. Then, with a definitive click, it landed on a third sun.
The machine exploded with sound and light. Bells rang out, gears spun wildly, and a cascade of golden coins poured from the payout chute, spilling across the counter in an avalanche of gleaming metal.
"Wha—" The shop worker stared, slack-jawed. "That's impossible. No one ever hits the jackpot!"
The woman's mouth fell open as she gestured wildly at the machine. "Are you kidding me? I put five coins in there, and I got nothing! How does he hit the jackpot in two tries?"
Ivaim shrugged, his smirk widening as he began scooping the coins into a pouch. "What can I say? Sometimes, luck smiles on the right person at the right time."
The shop worker shook his head, still in shock. "This machine is calibrated perfectly. There's no way—"
"Calibrated or not," Ivaim cut in, tying the pouch shut with a practiced ease, "it seems like today's my lucky day."
As he turned to leave, the woman glared at the shop worker.
"Rigged, huh? Guess your fancy machine isn't so perfect after all."
The shop worker stammered, trying to defend himself, but the crowd's laughter drowned him out.
Ivaim walked away with a confident stride, the weight of his winnings jingling at his side. Behind him, the murmurs of amazement and disbelief followed like an echo, leaving the woman and the shop worker staring at the glowing machine in stunned silence.
...
'Well, that's one way to earn money,'
Ivaim mused, weighing the heavy pouch of coins at his side.
'I shouldn't do this too often, though. Someone's bound to figure out I'm not exactly normal, and the last thing I need is that kind of attention lest I wanna get hunted down by another Reality Master...'
Suppressing the flicker of greed tempting him to try his luck again, he stuffed the pouch into his coat pocket and continued down the Workshop Streets. The lively clang of hammers and the rhythmic whir of gears surrounded him, filling the air with the heartbeat of industry.
As he walked, his gaze fell on a woman crouched beside a tangle of wires and metal parts. She gripped a crank with both hands, her brow furrowed in concentration. The wires twisted in chaotic loops, and it was clear she was struggling to make sense of them.
The scene tugged at a distant memory. Ivaim's lips twitched into a faint smile as he recalled working in his father's workshop back on Earth, always mixing up wires and earning his father's exasperated sighs.
He stopped a few steps away, tilting his head.
"What's that you're working on?"
The woman glanced at him briefly, her face devoid of emotion, then returned her focus to the task at hand without a word.
Ivaim raised an eyebrow.
"Tough crowd," he muttered to himself, but curiosity kept him rooted. His eyes scanned the mess of components, the coil of wires, and the half-assembled device she was struggling with.
After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his tone light but with a hint of knowing.
"You've got the blue wire crossed with the red. That's why the crank keeps jamming."
The woman froze, her hands hovering over the wires. She glanced at him again, this time with a spark of skepticism in her eyes.
"And how would you know that?" she asked flatly, her voice tinged with irritation.
Ivaim shrugged.
"Let's just say I've tangled with enough wires in my time to know when they're not playing nice."
She frowned, clearly debating whether to listen or dismiss him entirely. With a huff, she adjusted the wires as he suggested, untangling the blue and red before giving the crank another try.
This time, it turned smoothly, the device humming to life with a faint glow.
The woman blinked, her expression flickering with surprise before settling back into neutral.
"Huh... Guess you're not completely useless."
Ivaim smirked. "High praise. Glad I could help."
She stood, brushing her hands on her apron. "Don't think this means I owe you anything."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, his tone light. "But maybe next time, keep the wires in order before they tie themselves in knots. Saves a lot of trouble."
She crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously.
"You don't look like a mechanic. What's your angle?"
"No angle," Ivaim said with a casual wave, a faint smile lingering on his lips. "Just someone passing through with a knack for fixing things."
The woman paused, studying him with narrowed eyes, as if weighing his words.
"Not a mechanic, huh? Then what are you, exactly?"
"Let's just say I'm good with my hands," Ivaim replied, leaning lightly against the counter, his tone carrying an easy confidence.
The woman let out a sharp snort, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a grease-stained hand.
"Good with your hands, huh? You sound like half the drifters who pass through here. All talk, no follow-through."
"Fair," Ivaim said with a chuckle, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk. "But here's the difference—I actually mean it."
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That's what they all say."
"Ah, but they don't usually back it up," Ivaim countered, gesturing toward the now-functional machine beside her. "I just did."
She glanced at the humming device, then back at him, her expression softening just a fraction. "Alright, I'll give you that. You've got some skills. But fixing one crank doesn't make you a mechanic."
"Maybe not," he admitted, his smirk widening. "But it's a start, isn't it?"