The workshop looked like it had seen better days—about fifty years ago.
What had once been a proper research facility was now a run-down building with cracked walls, leaking pipes, and windows that barely let in any light. Three people sat around a small wooden table that had so many cracks in it that they had to be careful not to let their papers fall through the gaps.
The first man looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His glasses were crooked on his nose, his hair stuck up in every direction, and he had the kind of expression that suggested someone had just told him his dog had died. His name was Tony, and he was supposed to be the leader of their little group.
The other two men looked very similar—twins, in fact.
One had dirty blond hair and wore a mechanic's apron covered in different tools. Hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and things that might have been tools but could also have been torture devices hung from his belt. His name was Thomas, and he was their craftsman.
