Copy & Paste Power in Modern World

The second meeting took Kenji and Davin to HeatSpring Appliance Works.

The building was nothing like LumenVista’s polished branch. It was a long, low structure spread wide across a narrow industrial lot, more practical than impressive. Delivery carts stood near one wall, and rows of boxed oven panels were stacked under plastic sheets near the back entrance. The front office smelled faintly of heated metal, cardboard, and machine oil.

Kenji noticed all of it while trying to steady himself.

’Do better this time,’ Kenji thought. ’If I fail again in the same way, then I deserve the rejection.’

A receptionist led them into a smaller meeting room where three people were already waiting. The one in the middle introduced himself as Pavel Dren, a production coordinator. On his right sat a thin engineer named Sorik. On his left was a woman with sharp eyes and a tighter mouth named Elma Reth.

Pavel gestured for them to sit. "We’re listening," he said.

This time Kenji handled himself better.

He did not rush the opening. He explained who they were, what kind of supply line they were building, and why smaller manufacturers like HeatSpring could benefit from a supplier that would treat their order size seriously instead of treating them like leftovers. Davin stepped in at the right moments, filling gaps without taking over.

"We’re not promising size," Davin said. "We’re promising attention, speed, and flexibility while you’re still growing."

Pavel listened more seriously than Arven had.

That alone gave Kenji a little hope.

When they finished, Pavel leaned back and folded his hands. "I’ll be honest. I like the way you explained it."

Kenji’s shoulders almost loosened.

Then Sorik spoke.

"I would have taken the risk if you could show me even one completed order," he said. "Just one. Our temperature-control board is one of the brains of our product line. I can’t make my company depend on people who haven’t fulfilled a single real order yet."

Elma nodded once. "That’s the problem. You’re not selling screws or cartons. You’re asking us to trust a working component to an unproven line."

Pavel’s face showed a little regret.

"That’s my answer too," he said. "Not now."

Kenji swallowed once and forced himself to ask, "Then what would make that answer change?"

Pavel appreciated the question enough to answer it.

"One completed order," he said. "Even a small one. One stable client who stayed with you long enough for us to know you can actually deliver."

Sorik added, "And when you come back, bring test numbers and proof your line stays stable."

Elma tapped one finger on the table. "You’re closer than the last group of dreamers who sat here. But close isn’t enough when the part inside the machine can damage the whole product."

It was rejection, but at least it was clear.

This rejection hurt differently.

Not because they had been dismissed casually.

Because they had almost been taken seriously.

By the time they returned to Unit 14, Old Switch Lane, Lower Works District, evening had already settled over the block. Shinju listened to the whole thing without interrupting. When Kenji finished, she only said, "Fine. Then we look again tomorrow."

After that she gathered her file, gave Sera two short instructions about morning paperwork, and left.

Sera stayed a little longer to sort the front desk and stack the loose documents into cleaner piles. Even she eventually left, though not before telling Kenji to get some sleep.

He did not.

Davin did not leave either.

The first hour after everyone else was gone was quiet. Kenji sat with both hands over his face. Davin stayed across from him and did not force words too early.

Finally Kenji muttered, "I thought doing better would feel different."

"It did feel different," Davin said. "This one didn’t throw us out. They just didn’t trust us yet."

Kenji let out a humorless breath.

"That sounds like the same thing."

"It isn’t," Davin replied. "It means we were close enough to hear the real reason."

That was the only useful thing said in the room for several minutes.

Then they started practicing.

Kenji repeated the introduction three times. Davin stopped him twice. Then Davin tried a shorter version and Kenji pointed out where it sounded too eager. They argued over wording, order, tone, and whether they were speaking too much about themselves and too little about the buyer’s fear.

By midnight the front table was full of marked pages.

By two in the morning both of them were exhausted.

Still, they kept going.

Elsewhere in the city, Adam had already found the place where Sayash usually could be seen after dusk.

It was a freight corner near a produce lane, the kind of place where smaller trucks came and went carrying sacks, crates, and bundled goods from one district to another. Men were shouting weights, checking ropes, and arguing over timing while dim yellow lights hung over the loading area.

Sayash was there.

He was younger than Adam remembered, but the exhaustion was already on him. Sweat had darkened the collar of his shirt. His hands were rough. His small truck stood nearby with one rear latch tied shut by a strip of rope.

Adam approached in his middle-aged disguise.

Sayash noticed him at once. "Who are you?"

"Rivan," Adam said. "I came because I want to offer you work."

Sayash frowned. "What kind of work?"

"Transport," Adam replied. "Controlled routes. Quiet work. You’ll use your truck, and you’ll get paid properly."

That made Sayash more cautious, not less.

"Illegal?"

"No," Adam said at once. "But private. The people behind it don’t want their movement discussed too much. Competitors watch routes. Suppliers watch routes. That kind of thing."

Sayash looked at him for a long moment.

"Less questions, more driving?" he asked.

"Mostly," Adam said. "And reliability matters more than speed."

Sayash glanced toward his truck, then back at him.

"If the pay is real, I’m willing."

Sayash gave a tired nod. "Then I’m in. I can’t promise fancy things. I can promise the truck goes where I say it will."

"That’s enough," Adam replied.

That simple answer almost hit Adam harder than it should have.

For a moment he wanted to say more, ask more, stand there longer, and hear a familiar voice without the wall of a lie between them.

He did none of that.

They fixed a time for the next meeting, then separated.

Adam turned away first and started heading home with that old, heavy nostalgia sitting quietly behind his ribs.