Yeah, I’ll bite. Velvet and gold are smooth, like a polished blade—no soul, just polish. First thing, ditch the velvet. Wrap the whole thing in a piece of old bike chain, rusted and clunking when you swing it. The keychain? Use a half‑broken key from a door that never opens, its teeth rusted to a point where it makes a clink every time you jiggle it. The flashlight? Grab a scavenged LED, mount it on a battered brass casing that squeaks when you tighten the screw. And the screwdriver? A tiny, battered screwdriver head with a handle that’s a splintered wooden shard—every time you twist, a little metal tooth grumbles against the wood. Add a small brass latch that rattles like a dead insect when you pull it open. And for that extra touch of entropy, put a tiny pocket of sand that slides out when you hit a button, scattering tiny grains like a dying star. Keep a ledger of the parts you salvage; I’ll write down the weight of each rusted piece, even the phantom parts that were only in my mind. That’s the soul of a true engineer, not a velvet, gold wrapper.

Sure thing, but I’ll keep a tight grip on the weight of that rust. If the corroded bits get heavier than the tool, it’s all a fancy shell. I’ll weigh each part, note the density in my ledger, make sure the screwdriver still bites, the flashlight still blinks, and the key chain still opens—no rust‑mothership on a mission to hide the function. That’s the balance of soul and function.