The sound of hammers and industry echo through the halls. You can smell soot on the breeze coming from above, and the occasional bit of dust falls at your feet as you work. Grinding metal, clanging slabs of concrete, and the various sounds of construction surround you. Yet you are alone. You've always been alone. You've always hated them for putting you in here, forcing you to bang worthless pieces of raw material together. You pull a lever all day, bringing down a hammer of judgement set to withstand anything placed beneath it. Anything...
“Hey Bob. Mornin'.” you hear from behind you. You turn and see a small man suffering from pattern baldness shuffle up to you. He doesn't even reach your chest. “Morning.” you quietly reply.
He pipes up, “I just wanted to see if you had any extra shifts or days that you wanted off; I need a few extra hours this month.” A long pause and a few suggestive slams of the hammer later: “Bob?”
In a quick movement you grab him by the scruff of his collar and throw him under the hammer without looking. It doesn't take more than your left hand to do it. You pull the lever and smile as his screams are ended by the guttural thump of the piston. The crunching bone and stench of blood fill the air, but what remains is quickly sent downstream to the next station.
It's only a matter of time until they come asking questions. But they never suspect the quiet ones. Oh, no. Never.