The garage smelled like gasoline, hot metal, and poor life choices.

Evie liked it that way.

Music blasted from cheap speakers near the office while sparks rained under a lifted Camaro. Half-finished engines crowded every surface. Someone had abandoned fries on top of a toolbox three hours ago.

Evie rolled out from under a Ducati with a wrench between her teeth.

“Luis,” she yelled, “if you touch my torque wrench again, I’m replacing your brake fluid with Mountain Dew.”

From upstairs:

“That was one time!”

“It was three times!”

She shoved curls out of her face just as headlights swept across the concrete floor.

A matte-black SUV rolled slowly into the garage.

Evie froze.

“…Oh, that is disgusting.”

Not the vehicle.

The suspension.

The thing sat wrong immediately.

Too heavy in the rear.

Alignment all over the place.

Whoever built it had money and confidence. Terrible combination.

The engine shut off.

All four doors opened at once.

Big men stepped out first.

Tactical boots.

Sidearms.

Military posture.

One guy had a scar across his throat that looked expensive.

Evie stared for two seconds.

Then sighed.

“Oh good. Murder people.”

Scar-Throat blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Evie pointed at him with the wrench. “You specifically look like you’ve threatened somebody with pliers.”

One of the other men barked out a laugh.

Scar-Throat looked offended.

Then the rear passenger door opened.

Silence hit the garage fast.

Not complete silence.

The music still played.

Tools still rattled upstairs.

But every armed guy near the SUV straightened slightly.

Evie noticed that first.

Then the man stepping out.

Black tactical clothes.

Black gloves.

Tall enough to block part of the overhead light.

No visible weapon.

Which honestly felt worse.

He shut the door quietly behind him.

No rush.

No noise.

The other men watched him without looking obvious about it.

That kind of respect usually came attached to body counts.

One of them cleared his throat.

“We need repairs.”

Evie ignored him and crouched near the rear tire instead.

Her fingers tapped the frame once.

Then twice.

She looked offended.

Actually offended.

“Whoever installed this suspension should be arrested.”

Dead silence.

Evie glanced up slowly.

Nobody moved.

Scar-Throat stared at her like she’d kicked a priest.

One guy physically turned away and rubbed both hands over his face.

Evie frowned.

“…What?”

Still nothing.

She pointed under the SUV.

“No, seriously, this alignment is garbage. This thing corners like a depressed refrigerator.”

The tall man finally spoke.

“Interesting opinion.”

Low voice.

Calm voice.

Not fake calm either.

The kind that made normal people lower theirs automatically.

Evie looked at him properly for the first time.

Grey eyes.

Tired ones.

Not sleepy.

Not bored.

The kind that checked exits without meaning to.

Then something clicked.

Ice cream truck.

Downtown traffic.

The convoy.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Evie stood slowly.

“You.”

The man tilted his head slightly.

Tiny movement.

Behind him, Scar-Throat looked seconds away from cardiac arrest.

Evie pointed carefully.

“You were there.”

No answer.

“That was your convoy.”

Silence.

Good enough.

Evie looked at the SUV again.

Then back at him.

Then, against every survival instinct she’d ever accidentally ignored—

“Okay, in my defense, your security team parked like raccoons with emotional problems.”

One of the men choked violently.

Another muttered:

“Oh my God.”

The tall man kept watching her.

No reaction.

Honestly worse than anger.

Evie crossed her arms.

“Well? You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

Scar-Throat leaned forward sharply.

“Evie.”

She frowned at him.

“How do you know my—”

A beat.

She looked down at her coveralls.

“Oh. Right.”

The tall man’s eyes dropped briefly to the grease smudge on her cheek.

Then the wrench hanging from her back pocket.

Then back to her face.

Still nothing.

Which, somehow, was starting to annoy her.

Finally he asked:

“Can you fix it?”

Evie scoffed.

“Obviously.”

She crouched again beside the rear tire.

“But whoever built this setup needs therapy.”

Silence.

Then someone behind him whispered:

“…He built it.”

Evie stopped moving.

Very slowly:

“…Oh.”

Nobody spoke.

Music crackled softly through the garage speakers.

Somewhere upstairs, something metal hit the floor.

The tall man looked at her for another second.

Then the corner of his mouth moved slightly.

Not really a smile.

More like his face forgot the rules for half a second.

“Interesting opinion,” he said again.