The flap of the envelope tore clean across the top as Mikhail slid his thumb under the glued seam. A fine haze of limestone dust clung to his jacket cuff. The wind carried faint murmurs from the quarry, where the last shift was packing up tools for the day. Lars leaned in at his shoulder, lips pressed into a flat line, eyes flicking across the lab report's header like a man scanning battlefield intelligence.
"Above-grade," Lars said, tapping the margin with two fingers. "The compressive strength landed at 38 MPa. That's a full two over what we projected, and three over town code."
Mikhail let out a breath that wasn't quite relief. "Then we post it."
He stepped outside the site trailer, holding the paper aloft as he crossed toward the main gate. Kat was checking the fuel on the generator; she looked up, squinting. "What's that?"
"Proof," Mikhail said. He slipped the report into a weather-safe frame and clipped it to the site's perimeter board, right under the build schematic. "Let's see who notices."
They didn't have to wait long. By noon, a couple of retirees had wandered over from the bakery, eyes flicking from the machinery to the report posted on the fence. Mikhail watched them murmur over the numbers, clearly unsure of what they meant, but intrigued that something had been put up at all. Transparency in this town was rare.
Kat nudged him with an elbow. "Might be worth actually explaining it."
Lars, ever the pragmatist, was already unfolding a fold-out table near the entrance. He laid out water jugs, printed cross-sections, and a fresh stack of spec sheets. Mikhail watched him work, then joined him, pointing at the schematic and marking where the quarry aggregate was now part of their mix process.
By mid-afternoon, more curious townsfolk were filing in. Not in droves, but a steady trickle, drawn by the posted numbers and, more importantly, by the lack of fences and locked gates. A former schoolteacher approached Lars first. "Is this where the new public building's going up?"
"Yes, ma'am," Lars replied, then pointed to Mikhail. "He's the one to ask."
The woman turned to Mikhail, cautious. "Is it true you're using stone from the old quarry?"
Mikhail nodded. "Limestone, yes. Cleaned, crushed, and tested. Stronger than what we'd get shipped in, and local."
"What about dust?" asked another man, arms crossed over a maintenance uniform. "Air gets bad when they grind stone."
"We've got dampers and rotation schedules. Water down the worksite twice daily," Mikhail said. "And we'll have perimeter shielding installed before we hit the next phase."
It was a small detail. But the man's brow eased.
Kat gestured to him over a few minutes later. A young mother had shown up with her kid, eyeing the bulldozers with suspicion. "Is this near the school route?" she asked. "What about safety?"
Mikhail walked her to the edge of the barrier line. "Everything heavy stays inside that mark," he said, tapping the steel-toed boundary. "We're also putting up reinforced concrete barriers—four feet high. No shortcuts. Ever."
The mother gave a slow nod. "That's good to hear."
Word must've spread, because by four o'clock, the table was surrounded. Questions flowed, costs, completion, who would run the building once it was done. Mikhail answered each in turn, careful not to promise more than they had. But honesty, it turned out, sold better than charm.
One older man in a cap leaned over to inspect the material chart, then tapped a line with his calloused thumb. "You're saying this is stronger than the old post office foundation?"
Mikhail nodded. "By a wide margin. And easier to repair long-term."
The man snorted, almost approvingly. "Huh. About damn time."
Kat appeared beside him, arms crossed, half-smirking. "You're turning them."
"We're just giving them something real to look at," Mikhail said.
Behind him, a local shopkeeper stepped forward, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "You should hold a proper meeting. People need to hear this straight from you."
Mikhail met Lars's glance, then turned to Kat. "We can set something up. Lights, sound, maybe an open Q&A."
Kat raised an eyebrow. "When?"
Mikhail's eyes scanned the crowd, the rising interest, the flickers of trust forming at the edges of conversation. He looked toward the floodlight towers stacked by the generator.
"Tomorrow night," he said. "Right here."
The next evening, the site didn't look like a construction zone.
It looked like a stage.
Floodlights glared white against the deepening dusk, casting long shadows across gravel and poured concrete. Mikhail stood near the newly placed safety barriers, now repurposed as seating rows with upturned pallets and crates for makeshift benches. Lars had even strung up a tarp between two scaffolding rigs to give it all the illusion of structure. It wasn't much, but it didn't need to be.
Kat was adjusting one of the lights, frowning at the angle. "If anyone goes blind, it's your fault," she muttered, then stepped back to check the symmetry.
"Better they see us clearly than wonder what we're hiding," Mikhail replied, his breath fogging as the night grew colder.
By 7:00 PM, they came. Not in masses, but enough to crowd the perimeter, families, shopkeepers, off-duty workers, and a few old-timers who normally wouldn't be caught dead within fifty feet of a new development. Some came with skepticism in their eyes. Others came with folded arms. But they came.
Mikhail stepped forward, no microphone, no podium, just him and a rust-streaked steel drum flipped upside-down for height.
"Thanks for coming," he began, voice steady. "I know this isn't the usual way of doing things, and I'm not much for speeches. But you deserve to know what we're building, because it's going to affect all of you."
Lars handed out printed schematics and floorplans as Mikhail continued. Kat walked the edges, answering questions in low tones and waving over anyone who looked confused.
"This isn't just a concrete shell. It's going to be a shared space: municipal offices, a health outpost, a small indoor market. Not promises. Plans. Ones we've filed and posted."
He lifted a hand, motioning to the laminated blueprint on a wooden easel. A few people leaned closer. An older woman pulled her glasses from her purse.
A man in the back raised a hand. "How do we know this won't stall like the last three council projects?"
"Because it's not the council's," Mikhail said plainly. "We're private. Self-funded. No committee votes, no budget freezes. We finish what we start."
A few nods. Someone muttered, "That'd be a change."
Another voice called out, sharper this time. "Then who profits? You?"
Mikhail didn't flinch. "Eventually, yes. That's how business works. But not by cutting corners. Not by selling off contracts to the highest bidder. We do it clean, or we don't do it."
That earned silence. Not approval. But silence was better than shouting.
He glanced toward Kat, who gave him the slightest nod.
"Anyone who wants to walk the site, ask questions, or look over the specs—tonight's your chance. We're not hiding anything."
As he stepped down, the murmurs resumed, but they weren't hostile. A young man with an apprentice badge began flipping through the material samples on display. An elderly couple took photos of the posted concrete tests. Kids pointed to the scaffolding and asked their parents what it was for.
Lars approached with a quiet grin. "Better than I expected."
Mikhail scanned the crowd, watching the walls of suspicion slowly wear down under the floodlights. "They just needed to see that it wasn't talk."
A girl of maybe twelve walked up, eyes wide. "Is this gonna be a place where we can come?"
He crouched to her level. "Yeah. It's for everyone. That's the point."
She smiled, then ran back to her parents.
Behind him, Kat stepped close. "You did good, Mikhail."
He looked toward the edge of the property, where a town official stood scribbling in a notebook, half-hiding his interest. "We're not done yet."
Kat followed his gaze. "What's next?"
Mikhail's jaw tightened. "Now we make sure no one pulls the rug out from under us." He nodded toward Lars. "I want every permit, inspection log, and delivery slip copied and locked. No gaps."
"You think someone's going to push back?"
"I'd bet on it," Mikhail said, eyes narrowing as a black sedan pulled up just beyond the site lights.
The door opened.
A polished shoe hit gravel.