I stared down at the clipboard in my hands, the pen tapping lightly against its surface in a rhythm I wasn’t aware of. A deep sigh escaped my lips, the weight of lingering memories pressing down on my chest. Life after the killing game wasn’t what I’d call normal. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what normal was supposed to feel like anymore. Every once in a while, flashes of those horrific days crept into my thoughts—a shiver down my spine, a ghost of fear I couldn’t quite shake. But here I was, trying to move forward the only way I knew how.

Fixing things. Machines didn’t lie, didn’t betray, didn’t judge. They were honest in their brokenness, and I could always piece them back together. It was comforting, in a way. Familiar.

The chime of the shop’s bell snapped me out of my thoughts. I glanced up, spotting a man wheeling in a beat-up motorcycle. The thing looked like it had been through a warzone—scratched paint, bent handlebars, and a chain that looked ready to snap at any moment. The guy himself looked a little rough around the edges too, but I wasn’t one to judge. I cleared my throat, straightening my back before speaking.

"Hey there, sir," I greeted, my voice steady despite the slight knot of nerves twisting in my gut. I tilted my head to the side, forcing a polite smile to my face. "What seems to be the problem?"

He launched into an explanation, gesturing to the bike and rattling off a list of issues. My eyes darted between him and the machine as I scribbled notes on the clipboard, my handwriting slightly messier than I’d like. As he spoke, I felt a flicker of something familiar—a problem to solve, a puzzle to piece together. It was grounding.

"Okay... I see," I murmured, nodding as I finished jotting down the last note. I set the clipboard aside and stepped forward, brushing my hands against my jumpsuit instinctively. "Mind if I take a closer look at it?"