The morning sun filtered through the workshop windows as Elias completed his final set of deadlifts, the enhanced barbell settling to the floor with a satisfying thud. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool autumn air, and that familiar warmth was already spreading through his muscles—the supernatural efficiency of recovery and adaptation that still amazed him after three days of use.
He was becoming addicted to it, he realized. Not just the physical sensations, but the rapid transformation of his body that defied every principle of exercise physiology he'd ever heard of. In just two days, he'd gained more strength and muscle tone than most people achieved in two months of intense training. The changes were subtle but unmistakable—his shoulders had broadened slightly, his arms showed definition that hadn't been there a week ago, and the chronic lower back pain that had plagued him for years was completely gone.
But he'd also discovered the enhancement's limitation. After about ninety minutes of exercise, the effects began to diminish noticeably. Push past that point, and the supernatural efficiency faded to something approaching normal human physiology. It was as if his body had a daily saturation point for the enhanced recovery, a threshold beyond which even magical assistance couldn't overcome biological constraints.
So he'd settled into a routine: precisely ninety minutes of focused exercise each morning, followed by what felt like an entire day's worth of recovery compressed into a few hours. The appetite was staggering—his grocery bill had tripled as his body demanded the raw materials for its accelerated transformation. Even that didn't make much sense from a scientific standpoint. The sheer speed of protein synthesis and muscle development should have been impossible regardless of nutritional input.
He shrugged as he toweled off, the same mental gesture he'd been making increasingly often lately. From the beginning, this inscription business had never fit well with conventional logic. Why expect the rules of physics to suddenly start applying now?
Setting the barbell aside, Elias found his thoughts turning to the day's work ahead. The ring specifications had arrived yesterday—Webb's daughter wanted simple gold bands with custom inscriptions in what she called "flowing script." The details were straightforward enough: size 6 and size 10, 18-karat gold, with the inscription "Always together" in elegant cursive lettering. The kind of work that would have taken him days to complete by hand, but which the enhanced burin could accomplish in hours.
But as he looked around his workshop, a problem that had been nagging at the back of his mind suddenly crystallized into sharp focus. He had two supernatural tools now—three if he counted the original enhanced kukri. The burin lived in his jacket pocket, small enough to conceal easily, and he'd grown comfortable carrying it everywhere. But the barbell was impossible to hide, and if he continued creating enhanced tools, he'd eventually accumulate a collection that would be difficult to explain.
One or two special tools might be dismissed as exceptional craftsmanship. But too many, and questions would inevitably arise. Questions he wasn't prepared to answer.
The thought made his stomach tighten with anxiety. He'd been so focused on the technical challenges of creating enhanced tools that he'd barely considered the practical implications of possessing them. Brooklyn wasn't a small town where unusual activities went unnoticed, but it wasn't Manhattan either. People knew each other, talked to each other. If he started demonstrating superhuman strength or producing impossibly perfect craftsmanship on a regular basis, someone would notice.
He needed a long-term plan, but the immediate question was what to do about concealment. The enhanced barbell was too valuable to destroy, but too conspicuous to keep in his workshop indefinitely. He'd have to hide it somewhere, the same way he'd hidden the bone-dissolving kukri in the false bottom of his tool chest.
Elias carefully disassembled the barbell, wrapping the bar and plates separately before storing them in the hidden compartment he'd constructed months ago. The enhanced burin went into his jacket pocket as always—somehow, having it close made him feel more capable, more confident. It was becoming a talisman as much as a tool.
Looking at his watch, he saw it was still early, barely eight o'clock. Too early to start the precision work that ring-making would require, but late enough that the coffee shop down the street would be open. A change of scenery might help him think through the larger strategic question that was troubling him.
The morning air was crisp and clear as he walked the few blocks to Miriam's Coffee Corner, the neighborhood institution that had somehow survived gentrification through sheer force of excellent espresso and stubborn personality. The familiar ritual of ordering his usual—double shot, no sugar, extra foam—gave him a few minutes to organize his thoughts.
"You're looking better these days, Elias," Miriam called from behind the counter as she worked the espresso machine. The sixty-something proprietor had been observing her customers' lives for decades, noting changes with the keen eye of someone who genuinely cared about her regulars. "Standing straighter. Been working out?"
The observation caught him off guard. He'd been so focused on the internal changes—the strength gains, the energy levels—that he hadn't considered how visible the transformation might be to others. "Something like that," he replied, accepting his coffee with a noncommittal smile.
"Good for you. Never too late to start taking care of yourself." She moved on to the next customer, but her words stayed with him as he settled into his usual corner table.
Moving to a more remote location would solve the concealment problem, he mused as he watched the morning crowd through the window. Somewhere upstate, maybe, or even out west where land was cheap and neighbors were miles apart. He could set up a proper workshop, work without worrying about who might be watching or listening.
But even as he considered it, the idea felt wrong. The regular customer at the next table, the woman with the laptop who came in every Tuesday and Thursday, nodded at him with the casual familiarity of shared routine. The delivery driver who always double-parked outside, the businessman who invariably spilled sugar on the floor, the art student who sketched in the window seat—they were all part of the fabric of his daily life.
He'd lived in Brooklyn for over a decade, built relationships with suppliers and customers, established a reputation that brought him steady work. Starting over somewhere else would mean abandoning all of that, and at his age, building a new professional network felt daunting. His customers knew where to find him. Webb, for instance, had already commissioned a second project. How many others might follow if word spread about his exceptional craftsmanship?
The problem circled back to storage and concealment. If he couldn't move his workshop, he needed a way to keep his enhanced tools hidden while still maintaining access to them. Something portable, something that wouldn't attract attention.
A young woman at the counter was paying for her order, and Elias noticed the necklace she wore—a simple chain with multiple small pendants, each one different. A tiny compass, a miniature locket, a small crystal, what looked like a foreign coin. The collection told a story, he realized, each piece representing something meaningful to her.
The observation sparked an idea. Not a single large pendant that might draw attention, but multiple small ones. A bead necklace, perhaps, with each bead serving as a separate storage unit. That would solve both the concealment problem and the practical limitations of a single container. If he needed to expand capacity, he could simply add more beads.
The concept was elegant in its simplicity. Individual beads could be made small enough to appear decorative, unremarkable enough to wear openly without raising questions. The chain could be long enough to tuck under his shirt during work, but accessible when needed. Most importantly, the modular design meant he could start with just a few beads and expand the system as his collection of enhanced tools grew.
As he sat in the coffee shop, watching the morning crowd stream past the windows, Elias found himself sketching rough designs on a napkin. Small spheres, each one large enough to hold an inscription but small enough to appear ordinary. The material would matter—something durable enough to withstand daily wear, but workable enough for precise engraving.
The inscription itself would need to be specific rather than grandiose. Not "infinite storage" or some other impossibly broad concept, but something focused and achievable. Something like "stores something" in whatever language felt most appropriate. Simple, direct, and expandable by adding more beads to the chain.
The mathematical impossibility of the concept didn't discourage him. After all, the enhanced burin had already proven that conventional physics were more like guidelines than absolute laws. If he could inscribe supernatural sharpness into metal, why not supernatural capacity into a storage device?
By the time he finished his coffee, Elias had filled three napkins with sketches and notes, rough concepts for what might become his most practically useful creation yet. The ring work would have to wait another day. Today, he had more important research to conduct—starting with the question of what language would be most appropriate for inscribing "stores something" onto a collection of metal beads.
The walk back to his workshop felt different now, charged with possibility. He was no longer just a craftsman who happened to possess unusual abilities. He was becoming something else entirely—an inventor, perhaps, or an architect of impossible things. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
Whatever he was becoming, concealment would be crucial to his survival. And if he was going to hide in plain sight, he'd need the right tools for the job.