By hour three, Evie had reached two conclusions.

First:

the matte-black SUV handled like a tank with unresolved anger issues.

Second:

the quiet guy with the grey eyes had absolutely buried at least one body in a forest.

Possibly multiple forests.

She rolled out from under the SUV on the creeper board and wiped grease across her cheek with the back of her wrist.

Classic rock blasted overhead.

Somebody upstairs dropped a wrench and immediately yelled:

“THAT WASN’T MY FAULT.”

Evie sat up.

“Good news,” she announced.

Scar-Throat looked relieved immediately.

“The suspension’s salvageable.”

“Told you,” he muttered toward the others.

Evie pointed the wrench at him.

“Bad news? Whoever wired these rear stabilizers commits engineering hate crimes.”

One of the younger mercenaries made a strangled sound and walked directly into a steel support beam.

Nobody acknowledged it.

Across the garage, the quiet guy — Cassian — stood near the workbench watching her.

Not helping.

Not talking.

Just standing there with that same steady expression like he hadn’t blinked since 2009.

Honestly irritating.

Evie grabbed a clipboard off the counter.

“All right, let’s ruin somebody financially.”

She started writing.

Parts.

Labor.

Emergency overnight modifications.

Then she glanced toward the line of heavily armed mercenaries in her garage.

A terrible idea entered her brain.

Three minutes later, she slapped the invoice against Scar-Throat’s chest.

“There.”

He looked down.

Then frowned.

Then looked back up.

“This says forty-two thousand dollars.”

“Correct.”

“For suspension repairs?”

“And emotional damages.”

Silence.

Scar-Throat blinked slowly.

“What emotional damages?”

“You brought seven armed weirdos into my workplace, Kevin.”

“My name is Kane.”

“Close enough.”

Behind him, somebody snorted.

Kane looked personally betrayed.

“You charged us eight thousand dollars for ‘psychological inconvenience.’”

“You have scary vibes.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It became a thing when your buddy over there stared at me like a disappointed hitman librarian.”

Kane looked down at the invoice again.

“You tripled the labor rate.”

Evie shrugged.

“You people definitely launder cartel money.”

Silence hit the garage again.

That kept happening around them.

The younger mercenary bent forward laughing into both hands.

Kane looked horrified.

“We are not a cartel.”

Evie slowly looked around the garage.

Tactical gear.

Weapons.

Armored SUV.

Emotionally damaged men standing in military formation beside a coffee machine.

Then back at Kane.

“Sweetheart, you literally arrived in a war crime.”

“I hate this garage,” Kane muttered.

Evie tapped the clipboard.

“Look, either you pay rich-people prices, or I start asking legal questions.”

Kane opened his mouth.

Cassian spoke first.

“Pay her.”

Kane turned sharply.

“Boss—”

“Pay her.”

Still calm.

Still flat.

Kane stared at him for a second.

“…She’s robbing us.”

Cassian held out his hand for the invoice.

Evie passed it over.

His eyes moved down the page slowly.

Stopping briefly at:

PSYCHOLOGICAL INCONVENIENCE FEE

The garage stayed quiet.

Then the corner of Cassian’s mouth moved slightly.

Tiny movement.

Gone fast.

Evie caught it anyway.

Oh.

Well, that was a problem.

Not the almost-smile.

The fact that she immediately wanted to see it again.

Cassian reached into his jacket and pulled out a black card.

No logo.

No bank name.

Just rich serial killer energy.

He handed it over.

Kane looked physically ill.

“Boss.”

Ignored.

Evie took the card carefully.

Heavy.

Cold metal edge.

Definitely the kind of card attached to offshore accounts and emotionally unavailable childhoods.

She swiped it immediately.

Approved.

Of course.

People with that much trauma always had mysterious unlimited funding.

“Pleasure doing business,” she said brightly.

Kane stared at the receipt printer.

“You charged us four hundred dollars for coffee.”

“You drank six cups.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You also stole my cinnamon creamer.”

“I was under stress.”

Evie pointed at him triumphantly.

“Exactly. Psychological inconvenience.”

The younger mercenary nearly collapsed laughing.

Across the garage, Cassian’s attention drifted slowly around the room.

The mess.

The noise.

The music.

Evie yelling at Kane while waving a socket wrench around like courtroom evidence.

His gaze paused there a second too long.

Evie noticed immediately.

Interesting.

She handed the card back.

Their fingers almost touched.

Cassian’s hand stopped for half a second.

Small movement.

Barely there.

Then he took the card carefully without brushing her skin.

Evie leaned back against the tool cabinet.

“You know,” she said, “for a terrifying assassin guy, you’re weirdly polite.”

Kane made a choking sound.

The younger mercenary whispered:

“She’s absolutely gonna die.”

Cassian looked at her.

“Assassin?”

Evie waved vaguely around the garage.

“Oh, come on. Nobody wears gloves indoors unless they’ve killed people or host a podcast.”

Dead silence.

Kane slowly covered his face.

“Boss,” he said quietly, “please kill me first.”

Cassian ignored him.

He folded the invoice once.

Then again.

Then slipped it into his coat pocket.

Evie blinked.

“…Did you just keep the receipt?”

A beat passed.

Cassian looked at her.

“Yes.”

Evie stared at him for a second.

Then slowly pointed the wrench at his chest.

“That is somehow the weirdest thing you’ve done tonight.”

And for the first time since walking into the garage—

Cassian almost smiled again.