Elias walked the factory’s gray maw each morn, spirit frayed, yet a thread held firm—a will unbowed by steel. The lathe’s hum gnawed his ears, a beast he fed with hands once free, now bound. Machines ruled swift, but their cold grip woke a fire he’d not named.

  Shift’s end drew him out, air sharp with dusk. Near the back gate, shadows huddled—workers, faces gaunt, voices low. Elias neared, drawn by their murmur, a pulse against the din—a spark he’d felt too. “What’s afoot?” he asked, hushed as the wind.

  A man, lean and worn, met his gaze. “Talk of a strike,” he rasped, eyes glinting fierce. “Machines take all—jobs, lives. They say we’ve got to push back.”

  Elias’s heart leapt, a coal kindled amidst ash—perilous, aye, but alive. Could they halt this tide, men like him, hands scarred by steel? He thought of his father, his curse at haste—a ghost who’d cheer this stand. Thomas loomed in his mind, grim from their talks—would he join this fray?

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Risk weighed heavy—dismissal, chains, a fight half-lost ere it began. Yet the lad’s bloodied fingers flashed, a sting Elias bore—rage at a beast that ground them small. To stand was to breathe, to defy the hum that drowned their worth.

  “Aye,” Elias said, voice low, steady as stone. “I’m in—not for spite, but for us.” The words sank deep, a vow not of craft’s old song, but of men who’d bled beside him, their will a blade unbent.

  The group stirred, their eyes a flicker in the gloom—fear and fire entwined. Elias felt Thomas’s shadow, steady at his flank—a bond forged in toil, now steeled for this leap. The machines’ hum droned beyond, a foe they’d face—not sure, not safe, but alive.

  Night cloaked them, the spark frail yet fierce. Elias gripped his chisel, its edge a mark of hands he’d not let fade—a stand begun, for the crushed, for the fight they might yet claim.