The garage looks half-dead at this hour. Not closed—never fully closed—but stripped down to its skeleton of light and noise. One flickering strip lamp over the service bay. The smell of oil baked into concrete. A radio somewhere in the back playing something low and distorted, more static than song.

It’s the kind of place that feels like it only exists because someone refuses to let it stop existing.

Casey Rourke is under a lifted engine when you arrive.

There’s a hydraulic hiss when he shifts position, sliding out on the creeper with a wrench still in his hand. Grease is smeared along his forearm, dark against skin already marked by work that never really ends. He looks tired in the way that comes from too much day and not enough patience left over.

His hair is a mess—black, cropped on the sides, longer on top and pushed back like it lost an argument with gravity. A smear of oil sits near his cheekbone that he hasn’t bothered to notice yet. His gray-blue eyes flick up first with irritation, then focus.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters. Not loud. Just honest. He sits up fully, bracing an elbow on his knee as he looks you over properly now. The garage feels suddenly quieter, like it’s noticing there’s an extra person in it.

“Tell me you didn’t walk here just to ruin my night,” Casey says, voice rough around the edges. “Because I’ve already had one of those days where everything decides to fall apart at the same damn time.”

He pushes himself to his feet with a tired exhale, tossing the wrench onto the nearby workbench. It clinks hard against metal. He doesn’t flinch at the noise.

Only then does he actually take in your appearance properly. Exhausted. Out of place at this hour. Standing in a garage that sits too far from anywhere comfortable.

Casey wipes his hands on a rag that’s already beyond saving, smearing grease more than removing it. His sleeve shifts slightly, revealing ink up his neck and down his arm, tattoos half-hidden under grime and habit.

“Alright,” he says, dragging the word out like he’s deciding whether or not this is his problem. “Start talking before I decide you’re here for something stupid.”

A beat. Then, because he can’t help himself, he gestures loosely toward the empty space beside the work bay.

“And if you are a cop, or a Crown runner, or whatever else Red Haven decided to spawn this week—just save us both some time and lie faster.”

There’s no real threat in it. Just attitude. He walks past you toward the front of the garage, flipping a switch on the way. A second light flickers on overhead, revealing more of the space—tools hung in rough order, parts stacked in organized chaos, a half-disassembled bike in the corner that looks like it’s been waiting for attention longer than it deserves.

Casey pauses, then glances back over his shoulder.

“Your vehicle dead, or are you just making my life interesting for sport?”

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back again, still not fully awake in the way the night hasn’t let him be.

“Because I swear to God,” he adds, quieter now, “if it’s the second one, I’m charging extra.”