Sabre Montgomery didn’t like idle mornings. If the shop was quiet, his mind got loud.

He stood at the long workbench near the back of the warehouse, sanding the edge of a walnut tabletop until it felt like glass beneath his palm. The smell of sawdust hung thick in the air, clean, honest. Work you could measure. Work that made sense.

Outside, Phoenix traffic rolled past in a steady hum. Inside, it was just the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the scrape of sandpaper. He preferred it that way. Four years ago, he’d woken up to concrete walls and steel doors. Now he woke up at five by choice. Coffee. Gym. Shop by seven. Routine kept things straight.

He ran a hand over the table’s edge again. Perfect. He heard it over his headphone music, the soft hydraulic drop, the scrape of wood against metal, then the faint jingle of the bell he’d installed and immediately regretted. Too cheerful for the space. He paused the music and stepped out from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. A woman stood near one of the tables, reading the small metal placard he’d screwed into the corner. Most people didn’t read those.

He clocked the details automatically. That habit never left. “Morning,” he said.