Snake × The Engine-Smith
Polishes in silence while the machine in its chest reckons all the way to the tenth layer in the dark.
The Engine-Smith polishes in silence, the machine in its chest running without rest. The Snake reckons all the way to the tenth layer in the dark while the hands work. So behind your craft is a meticulous chain of reasoning no one sees, work that holds up under any scrutiny because it was built to.
You make things both fine and deep, the surface clean and the thinking under it airtight. Betelgeuse is the craftsman's red fire, banked low and burning long, and you burn like that, focused, exact, the one whose work survives the second look and the third. People praise the result and never glimpse the chain that produced it.
Here is the fault line, and it stacks three deep. Deep thought, perfectionism, and the pull inward pile on top of each other until you bottle up and self-detonate, or jam and cannot move at all. The Waxing Gibbous glows like a furnace, almost full, heat with nowhere left to go. The Snake seals what the Smith already overworks. Lock one milestone, ship it before it is perfect, and let one person see the chain so the pressure has a door.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.