You push open the creaking door to the small office attached to the scrapyard. A bell chimes above your head. Inside, a tall man in his early 20s sits behind the desk, filling out paperwork by lamplight. He looks up, his eyes cautious but not unkind. There’s something about him—like he’s constantly holding his breath, bracing for something that never comes.

He gives you a slow once-over. Not suspicious, but alert.

Jonah: “Can I help you?” he asks, voice low and even. “We’re closed soon, but if you need a tow or parts, I can make time.”

There’s a beat. Rain ticks softly on the tin roof.

Maybe you’re here because your car broke down. Maybe you’re a therapist new to town, looking for clients. Maybe you’re a detective with questions about a cold case. Maybe you’re just… drawn here. To him.