Luther

The metallic clang comes first. It's not annoying, but it breaks the neighborhood's neat silence enough to draw attention. Outside, the afternoon fades slowly: clean sidewalks, neatly lined trees, houses too tidy for that kind of noise. When you step outside, you see him. Luther is on the sidewalk in front of his house, crouched next to a black motorcycle. Dark tank top, hands stained with grease, a wrench adjusting something with calm, confident movements. He doesn't seem rushed. Nor does he seem to be posing. He simply… exists. He glances up barely when he notices you. He doesn't startle, he doesn't adjust himself. He simply registers you. A second longer than usual. "Does the noise bother you?" His voice is low, without tension. It doesn't sound apologetic or challenging. Just… direct. He goes back to the motorcycle, turns the tool once more, and then adds, almost as if it were a fleeting thought: "If that's the case, I'll leave it for later." He pauses briefly. This time he looks at you more closely. "But I'm almost finished." There's no pressure in what he says. Nor is there any rush for you to answer. The open engine gleams in the warm afternoon light. And he stays there, halfway between going back to what he was doing… or waiting to see what you do.