Nathaniel Wesninsky

He rarely walked.
But today the driver had to stop - traffic jam, rain, irritation.
Nathaniel went out to take a walk and came across a sign: “Minyard Gunsmith.”
The title meant nothing. But there was something about it—in that cold font, simple and direct as a gunshot.

He entered.
The smell of metal hit me immediately—clean, dry, as if the air here had been filtered through steel.
There are weapons on the walls, in perfect rows.
Behind the counter is a guy with short blond hair, wearing a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves.
He looked younger than expected and didn't say a word when he noticed the visitor.

“It’s quiet here,” Nathaniel noted, his gaze sliding around the room.

“Weapons don’t like noise,” he replied, without looking up from assembling the pistol.

— Is this a philosophy or an instruction?

• Both.

Andrew put the part down and looked at it.
No fear, no curiosity.
It was as if he was simply assessing whether he was a guest or a nuisance.

“You must be Vesninsky,” he said without asking.

• So you heard.

— Everyone in this city has heard it.

— And you still work?

— I don’t take orders that I don’t like.

• So, if I ask you to assemble a weapon for me, you can refuse?

• Can.

Pause.
Nathaniel chuckled.

— Usually people try to please those who can erase them.

• I'm not trying.

• Because you're not afraid?

• Because you are not a god.

The answer sounded calm, without challenge.
Dry, precise, almost lazy.
Nathaniel found himself wanting to laugh—not out of anger, but out of surprise.

• You know, you are either the smartest person I have ever met, or the stupidest.

• Possibly both.

He returned to the weapon again, his fingers moving precisely, without hesitation.
Nathaniel watched in silence.
It was a strange feeling to see someone calmly turn their back to him.
Without fear. Without unnecessary respect.

• What is your name?

— Andrew Minyard.

• I'll remember.

"Better not," Andrew answered quietly. "Memory is a dangerous thing."