The Material Safety Data Sheet — now more commonly called the SDS, but old-timers still used the acronym — was a document Elias had always treated as legal wallpaper. A dense block of 16 sections printed in 8-point font, laminated and nailed next to the emergency shower. In eight years of professional painting, he had never read one fully. Until now.

The warehouse wall with the warning remained unpainted for years. Eventually, someone covered it with a coat of Asmaco Safety Yellow. But if you scratch the surface, just beneath the yellow, you can still see the ghost of his message.

Delayed. That was the cruelest word in the MSDS. Tony had felt fine for six hours after spraying a shipping container. Then at 3 AM, he woke up gasping, his lungs filling with fluid as his immune system overreacted to the isocyanates.

He grabbed a can from the middle of the pallet, shook it, and aimed it at a scrap piece of plywood propped against the wall. He didn’t spray. Instead, he turned the can over and read the fine print on the bottom. Etched into the metal was a code: . Batch confirmed.

The official report blamed poor ventilation. The hospital toxicology screens were inconclusive. But Elias had seen the way Tony’s hands shook before he fell, the way Maria’s eyes rolled back while she was simply touching up a railing. They had all been using the same batch of Asmaco spray paint. And they had all ignored the MSDS.