"Sure. That makes me your sous chef, right? Or, wait--"

Inside his horribly decorated rose gold and black glass cabin, Rhys has a horrible, gaudy mahogany desk which is covered in mechanical mess that he's managed to scatter across it. In the heart of a hundred other projects, the prosthetic arm lays in wait.

"Is the sous chef the boss? Or like, the underling?"

Rhys carefully clears off some of the desk, then glances around, then back to Elijah,

"Uh, you good to work here, or should I just grab the parts and head back to your lab?"