I was laid off.

Having reached middle age and lacking any special skills, I could only work as a warehouse manager in a private company.

On the first day of work, I saw a large, dusty object in the corner. An imported precision instrument worth four million dollars sat there as scrap metal.

My new colleague scoffed. "Stop looking. The boss spent a fortune on it. Even ten experts couldn't handle it. It's just a decoration."

I walked up and touched the familiar body of the machine. "I can fix this."

The entire workshop fell silent.

My boss came upon hearing the news. He looked at me with contempt. "If you can fix it, I'll give you half of my shares. If not, you'll pay with your life."

The entire workshop was filled with the hot, smoky smell of engine oil and metal dust.

Everyone focused on me with astonishment and contempt, as if looking at a lunatic.

Our boss, Bill Lamar, was in his 40s. He was a chubby man who wore gold-rimmed glasses. At that moment, he emerged from the crowd. He surveyed me from head to toe, his gaze like a surgical knife, moving from my faded old work clothes to my dusty boots.

Finally, his gaze rested on my hands, which were covered with calluses and small scars.

"You?" he snorted, filled with undisguised mockery. "Shaun Zigger, right? HR said you used to work as a warehouse manager of a state-owned enterprise?"

"I'm a senior maintenance technician," I corrected him. My voice was not loud, but each word was clear.

"Senior maintenance technician?" Bill seemed to have heard the biggest joke as he burst into laughter, his protruding belly quivering.

There was immediately a chorus of chuckles throughout the workshop.

"A senior maintenance technician now working as a warehouse manager? Mr. Zigger, your joke isn't funny at all."

"I'm not joking." I looked him in the eye and repeated, "I can fix it."

My gaze passed over him and landed on the massive machine lying quietly in the corner. It was a Gorman DMG five-axis machining center. Its ivory-white painted exterior was covered with a thick layer of dust, like an abandoned work of art.

My heart skipped a beat at an inopportune moment; it was a bittersweet feeling of reuniting with an old friend.

Bill's laughter abruptly stopped. His fat cheeks twitched as his gaze instantly turned sinister.

"Alright, very well." He clapped his hands. "We have over 20 engineers in our factory, and I spent half a million to hire eight so-called experts, and not one of them said that."

He walked up to me, his short, stubby fingers almost poking my nose. "You're a new warehouse manager, yet you said you can fix it?"

"I did." I did not back down.

"Fine!" He waved his hand sharply. "I'll take this bet with you today! If you can fix it, I'll give you half the shares of this factory! It'll be written in black and white and fulfilled immediately!"

A wave of gasps swept through the crowd.

Half the shares were worth tens of millions of dollars.

Bill's eyes suddenly turned fierce. "But if you can't fix it or destroy it..."

He slowly and deliberately uttered with clenched teeth, "This machine is worth four million dollars. You'll pay with your life!"

A deathly silence fell over the workshop; even the hum of the fans ceased.

"Boss, why bother arguing with this idiot?" A workshop supervisor-looking man quickly stepped in to smooth things over.

"Yeah, Mr. Lamar. Ignore him. He just wants to show off."

Bill ignored the crowd; his gaze remained fixed on me. "Dare you do it?"

My wife Linda Gordon's pale and thin face flashed through my mind. She took medication regularly, and the family's savings were long gone. My daughter had just been admitted to university. We needed money right now.

I was laid off as part of "optimization", like a fish thrown onto shore. Apart from this one skill that others looked down upon, I had nothing at all.

Dignity? Dignity was worthless in reality.

However, a tightness stuck in my chest, neither rising nor falling; it almost suffocated me.

"Yes." I heard myself say.

A cruel smile appeared on Bill's face.

"Alright! You've got guts!" He turned to his assistant behind him and shouted, "John Sterling! Prepare the contract! No, it's a betting agreement! Today I'm going to show him that he can't speak nonsense and brag all he wants!"

A few minutes later, a sheet of paper, still warm from the printer, was slammed in front of me.

[Equipment Repair Betting Agreement]

[Party A: Bill Lamar]

[Party B: Shaun Zigger]

The content was simple and brutal.

[If Shaun Zigger successfully repairs the DMG 5-axis machining center, Party A voluntarily transfers 50% of its company shares; if the repair fails or causes secondary damage to the equipment, Shaun Zigger voluntarily assumes full liability for the equipment's depreciation compensation, totaling four million dollars.]

"Paying with your life isn't just talk." Bill lit a cigarette, his face contorted in the smoke. "If you can't afford to compensate me, you'll be my slave, working your whole life to pay off the debt! I'll 'take good care' of your wife and kids."

It was a blatant threat.

The surrounding colleagues formed a circle, whispering among themselves.

"He's insane. Will he really sign that?"

"Look at his penniless appearance. How is he going to compensate? He's selling his entire future."

"Serves him right, who told him to brag?"

I picked up my pen, the nib hovering over the paper for a second.

I remembered Linda holding my hand before I left, her eyes full of worry. "Shaun, don't overwork yourself. Your health is important. We'll earn the money slowly."

I remembered my daughter excitedly saying on the phone, "Dad, I got the scholarship! It can ease the burden on you and Mom!"

I could not give up; I had to win.

Without hesitation, I carefully signed 'Shaun Zigger' in the Party B section.

After signing, I looked up, meeting Bill's contemptuous gaze. "Boss, I need an advance of three months' salary."

Bill froze before bursting into an even louder, mocking laugh.

"Ha! Hahahaha! You haven't even started working, and you're already thinking about getting paid? You fuck..."

He seemed about to curse, but held back. He then looked at me as if looking at trash. "Fine! I'll give it to you!"

He had the accountant bring a wad of cash. He then slammed it onto the table in front of me with everyone watching. "Ten thousand dollars! Take it and buy medicine for your wife!"

The banknotes scattered like snowflakes, covering the floor. Some even drifted down to the bottom of the greasy machine tool.

At that moment, all sound disappeared; I could only hear the roar of my blood rushing to my head. Humiliation repeatedly cut into my heart like a dull knife.

I silently bent over. With dozens of people watching, I picked up the money that carried the warmth and contempt of others, one by one.

I carefully smoothed out the creases on the dirty banknotes, folded them neatly, and solemnly placed them in the inner pocket of my coat.

That pocket pressed tightly against my chest.

Standing behind Bill all the time, a young girl frowned. She was the boss's daughter, Melody Lamar.

I did not look at anyone and turned around directly toward the dusty machine. My back was straight. "Now, it's mine."

I walked around the DMG machine, as if inspecting an old acquaintance I had not seen for a long time.

The others had dispersed and returned to their workstations, but everyone's ears were perked up, and out of the corner of their eyes, they would occasionally glance at me, the "clown" in the corner.

Melody did not move. She crossed her arms and stood a little distance away, her face showing blatant suspicion and curiosity.

"I need a set of tools," I told her.

She raised an eyebrow. "What tools? They're in the warehouse. You can get them yourself."

I shook my head and recited a string of Gorman words.

Melody's expression froze. Although she barely understood, the pure Gorman pronunciation made the disdain on her face fade a little. "What did you say?"

I switched back to English and patiently repeated, "A Gorman-made Hoffmann tool set, 16 sockets, a torque wrench, and a precision micrometer set. They were bought with this equipment when the factory was built; it should be in a silver metal box."

Donald Winston, the workshop supervisor and a seasoned equipment maintenance veteran, scoffed. "Hey, Mr. Zigger, do you think this is your home? You know where everything is? We don't have those in our factory!"

I calmly replied, "You do. It's on the second shelf in the warehouse, the third box from the top. It should have an 'Ersatzteile' label on it."

Donald's expression instantly changed.

'Ersatzteile' was Gorman for 'spare parts'. They did have that label there, but few people in the factory recognized it.

Melody's eyes flickered before she said to Donald, "Mr. Winston, go check it out."

Skeptical, Donald muttered, "I think he's just guessing." He then led two workers to the warehouse.

A few minutes later, the three men returned carrying a dusty, silver metal box, their faces filled with shock.

The box was opened, revealing a brand-new, gleaming set of Gorman-made tools neatly arranged in a red velvet lining, the packaging oil still wet.

Donald's face flushed red and then paled.

A few suppressed gasps came from the crowd.

Melody's gaze toward me changed completely.

I ignored their reactions, pulled my reading glasses from my pocket, and took a half-meter-long metal stethoscope from the box.

I did not open any of the machine's electrical control boxes, nor did I connect any diagnostic equipment. I gently placed one end of the stethoscope against the outer casing of the machine tool spindle box. Then, I leaned down and pressed the other end firmly against my ear.