BREAKING POINT

Marcus jolted awake to shouting and someone coughing like they're dying. Building 47 made every sound echo worse, and through the thin walls he could hear his family fighting.

"...absolutely not going back to those cursed mines!" Aunt Mira's voice was high and scared.

"Need the copper, woman," came Grandfather's raspy voice. Another coughing fit cut him off. Wet and painful sounding. "Family needs..."

"Family needs you alive!" Uncle Aldwin shot back. "Look at yourself, Father. You can barely stand up, let alone swing a pickaxe ten hours."

Marcus threw on his clothes and stepped into the main room. What he saw made his stomach twist with guilt. His grandfather sat hunched on his sleeping pallet, looking more frail than Marcus ever remembered. The old man's face was gaunt, his clothes hanging loose on his shrinking frame. Dark circles under his eyes, hands shaking as he gripped his worn mining tools.

"I survived worse than some dust in my lungs," Grandfather wheezed, trying to sound strong but his voice trembled.

"Some dust?" Aunt Mira threw up her hands. "You lost two stone in weight! You cough up blood half the night! And you wanna go back down in those death traps?"

Marcus's mother put a gentle hand on the old man's shoulder. "Father, please. We'll find another way to earn the copper."

"What other way?" Grandfather's voice cracked. "Mines are the only work that pays enough. Think they'll hire an old man for anything else?"

The desperation in his grandfather's voice hit Marcus like a punch. This was his fault. While he'd been messing around with printing machines and soap recipes, his family was literally working themselves to death.

"Starting today, Grandfather doesn't have to go," Marcus said, cutting through the argument.

Everyone stared at him. Grandfather's eyes narrowed.

"Boy, unless you found a silver mine while sleeping, I don't see how..."

"In three days, maybe four tops, I'll bring home enough money to cover what you'd earn in two weeks at the mines," Marcus said, sounding more confident than he felt.

Uncle Aldwin snorted. "Marcus, your soap business is nice, but..."

"Trust me," Marcus cut him off, looking at each family member. "I know it sounds crazy, but trust me. Just three days."

His mother studied his face. "Marcus, what exactly you planning?"

"Something that's gonna change how business works in this city," Marcus said. "But I need you to trust me. And Grandfather needs to rest."

Grandfather tried to stand, swaying. "Won't be a burden..."

"You're not a burden," Marcus said firmly, steadying him. "You're family. And I'm gonna take care of family."

After more arguing and several coughing fits from Grandfather, the family agreed to give Marcus his three days. As he left Building 47, Marcus felt the weight of their trust pressing down on him.

At Thorne & Associates, Marcus threw himself into the printing machine with manic intensity. Every adjustment, every test, every failed attempt felt like his grandfather's life hanging in the balance.

"Aldric," he called when his partner arrived, "we need to hire Sara full-time. Starting today."

Aldric looked surprised. "Full-time? Marcus, we can barely afford..."

"She's way more skilled than we thought. I been watching her work. She understands mechanical stuff better than most trained craftsmen." Marcus gestured toward the printing press. "Look what she helped build. Those joints, that lever system. That's not lucky guessing. She knows her stuff."

"Where is she today?"

"That's what we gotta fix. She shouldn't have to choose between helping us and whatever other work she's doing to survive. If we hire her full-time, she can focus entirely on our projects."

Aldric hesitated. "Marcus, the expenses..."

"Will be worth it when this printing machine produces advertisements by the hundreds. Trust me."

Marcus sent Aldric to buy the ink ingredients he'd finally figured out. Soot, tree resin, and linseed oil mixed just right. While Aldric was gone, Marcus checked their paper sheets, examining each one for mold or warping.

The papers were drying well, better than he'd hoped. Rough texture but they'd work. Not perfect, but good enough.

Back at the printing machine, Marcus loaded a test paper and applied his ink mixture to the carved wooden block Aldric had gotten made. Simple design but effective. Their shop name, soap description, and "luxury quality for discerning customers."

He positioned the inked block, cranked the lever to apply pressure, and...

The wooden arm snapped with a sharp crack.

Marcus stared at the broken machine. Without the printing press, they'd be back to copying advertisements by hand. Weeks instead of days.

The workshop went quiet except for his breathing. Alone in the basement, surrounded by soap molds and broken dreams, Marcus finally let it all hit him.

He sat down hard on a wooden crate and buried his face in his hands. The image of his grandfather's gaunt face, that terrible cough, the weight of his family's trust. It crashed over him.

Marcus started crying.

Not quiet frustration tears from failed chemistry exams, but deep, wrenching sobs. The kind that come from knowing you might've promised more than you can deliver. His family was counting on him, trusting him with their survival, and his modern-world arrogance made him think he could revolutionize medieval commerce in three days.

The broken press arm lay on the floor like it was mocking him. All his grand plans about advertising meant nothing if he couldn't even build a simple machine.

Marcus cried until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. Then, slowly, he wiped his face and looked at the broken press again.

The arm was snapped, but the base was solid. The mechanical principles were sound. He'd just underestimated the stress points. This wasn't complete failure. It was an engineering problem that could be solved.

Marcus stood up, picked up the broken pieces, and started thinking.

Three days to save his family. Time to stop crying and start building.