He did what any veteran does. He disconnected the workshop PC from the internet. Rebooted into "Disable Driver Signature Enforcement" via the shift-restart labyrinth. His fingers, calloused from decades of carbide dust, moved with ritual precision.

Man-sup didn't turn from the screen. "The code doesn't expire. Only the paper does."

The auditor left. The USB drive stayed plugged in.

Mastercam X6—obsolete, unsupported, stubborn as dried ink. But the five-axis CNC router in his back room, a beast he’d built from scrap Japanese rails and Chinese spindles, spoke only that language. And three years ago, the dedicated dongle—the physical green token that unlocked the software—had died with a final, pathetic flicker.

At 5:47 AM on the third day, the last foot plate finished. Man-sup stacked them, touched the cool smooth surface of one. Then he saved his files, ejected the drive, and tucked it into a small lead-lined box—protection against stray magnetic fields, but really, a shrine.

At 2:17 AM, the emulator installed. A green checkmark. He launched Mastercam X6. The splash screen hung for three heartbeats—then the familiar gray interface bloomed. The toolpath menu was alive.

Hwang stood silent for a long minute. Then he turned off his phone's recorder. "I saw nothing. But you owe me."