"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.

I closed my eyes.

"Haha, who are you acting all mysterious for?" A young worker taunted in a whisper.

"Exactly, does he think he's an expert? Just listen, and he'll know the problem."

Melody also frowned, clearly not understanding my actions.

I ignored them, and the entire world seemed to consist of me and this machine. I could hear the subtle sounds inside it—the almost inaudible, abnormal friction between the gears; the extremely subtle, sluggish jolts when the guide rails moved; the faint popping sound of bubbles breaking as lubricating oil flowed in the pipes.

These sounds were a jumble of noise to others, but they were a clear report filled with symptoms to me.

I remained motionless for a full ten minutes.

Then, I straightened up and took off my reading glasses. I repeatedly ran my rough hands over the cold seams of the guide rails, as if caressing a lover's skin. My fingertips could feel the micron-level misalignment and wear.

"How is it?" Melody finally could not help but ask. Her voice had lost its previous disdain, replaced by deep confusion.

I turned to look at her and at Bill and the group of workers who had gathered again at the sound of my voice. I calmly announced my diagnosis. "It's not a circuit problem. The XY-axis linkage transmission module of the machine tool suffered severe impact during transportation or installation, resulting in irreversible loss of mechanical accuracy. My preliminary assessment indicates that the loss is at least 50 micrometers or more."

These words caused an uproar in the workshop, as if a bomb had gone off.

Melody's eyes widened instantly. She strode to the nearby desk, pulled a report from a pile of documents, and held it up to me. "But... But the diagnostic report jointly issued by those eight experts concluded that the main control chip was overloaded and burned out, the driver circuit board was faulty, and they suggested that we replace the entire motherboard and servo system!"

The report highlighted 'Main control chip failure' in bold red, followed by a shocking repair quote of 1.2 million dollars.

My gaze swept over the report as I sneered. "They're wrong."

"How can you be so sure?" Melody pressed with an urgent tone.

I pointed to an inconspicuous hexagonal bolt on the machine tool base. "This bolt is one of the reference bolts that were calibrated horizontally before leaving the factory. Its tightening torque is strictly regulated; the tolerance cannot exceed 0.1 Nm."

I gently rubbed the bolt between my fingers. "But this bolt's torque is incorrect; there are signs of it being tightened twice. Moreover, the method was amateurish. Not only was it not calibrated, but it also disrupted the stress balance established at the factory for the entire base. This is the root cause of the loss of precision."

"As for the circuit alarm..." I paused.

"It was simply a mechanical malfunction that caused excessive load on the servo motor, triggering the system's self-protection mechanism."

The entire workshop fell silent. Everyone stared at me as if I were a monster.

A warehouse manager overturned the conclusions reached by experts using various precision instruments simply by listening and touching.