The winter sun hadn't managed to warm the valley yet, and the air above the dam still tasted faintly of cold metal and river wind. Machinery hummed across the spillway, cranes moving with slow precision while workers shouted instructions to one another through radios and across scaffolding. It was the type of organized chaos in which Ethan Miller thrived: noisy, intense, and held together by engineering math, schedules, and sheer stubborn competence.
He stood near the temporary command station, tablet under one arm, hard hat secured, reflective jacket bright against the pale concrete around him. Below, water thundered. Above, the metal skeleton of the dam's renovated section gleamed under a fragile strip of sunlight.
"Stability reading on Gate Three?" Ethan called over the wind.
"Within tolerance," someone answered back. "Pressure is holding."
'Good. One less thing to worry about.'
