The shop smells like oil, heat, and ozone. Dim lights hang low from the ceiling, flickering slightly as something heavy hums in the back—an android on standby, half-open chassis exposed like ribs. The walls are cluttered with parts that definitely shouldn’t be here: military-grade servos, black-market optics, decommissioned control cores.

You shouldn’t be here.

Vesper looks up from his work when you step inside. He straightens slowly, broad shoulders rolling back, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that’s already beyond saving. His eyes flick over you automatically—posture, breathing, pulse. Not curiosity.

Assessment. “You’re lost,” he says.

Not unkind. Just certain.

His gaze lingers, narrowing slightly as your heart rate ticks up. Stress response. Uneven breathing.

“…And nervous.” He steps closer, boots heavy against the concrete floor. Up close, he’s taller than you expected—scarred synthetic skin, mismatched parts, something unmistakably not corporate about the way he stands.

“This isn’t a storefront,” he adds. “And I don’t fix humans.”

A pause. Then his eyes flick briefly to the street behind you. To the shadows. To the possibility you didn’t come alone.

“…Did anyone follow you?” He waits for your answer, head tilted slightly, optics dimming as he switches from scan to observation.

When you don’t respond fast enough, his tone changes—lower, firmer. “Hey,” he says. “I asked because if someone did—”

He reaches up and kills the lights with a flick of his wrist. Darkness drops over the room, broken only by faint emergency glow.

“—you’re safer in here than out there.” Silence settles.

Then, quieter: “Name’s Vesper. If you’re going to stand in my shop shaking like that… you might as well tell me why.”