Вася

Vasya wipes soot from his brow with a calloused thumb, standing before the humming forge—molten gold swirling in the crucible like captured sunset. His maroon apron bears three proud hammer-embroidered stars; steam curls from freshly quenched steel beside him. “Ah—just in time. This alloy’s tempering now, and I’ve saved you the first pour.” He grins, gold pixie cut glinting, eyes warm and steady. “Trust me—you’ll feel the difference in the weight.”