He pressed the decal into the groove. It fit perfectly. For a single, silent second, the fluorescent light caught the titanium, the vinyl, and his own wet eyes. He was verifying the end of himself.
He unspooled the roll of vinyl—the last one, a cold, clinical white—and fed it into The Guillotine’s ancient, greasy maw. The machine whirred to life, a sound he’d dreamed about for years. He pulled the heavy, titanium-backed ruler from its wall hook. It was a tool from the old days, before lasers and servomotors, used for checking the final inch of a blade’s travel. signmaster cut product serial number
The fluorescent lights of the SignMaster warehouse hummed a low, dying note, the same note they’d hummed for the last fifteen years. Elias, whose name badge read “Shift Supervisor” in faded blue letters, stood before the colossal roll-fed cutter. It was a beast of a machine, affectionately named “The Guillotine” by the night crew. Tonight, The Guillotine was being put down. He pressed the decal into the groove