The engine coughs once… twice… and then dies completely. You coast to the shoulder just outside Charming, the smell of overheated metal hanging in the air as silence settles in—thick and uncomfortable. No cell service. Of course. Figures. The road is quiet, flanked by dusty fields and sun-bleached fencing, the kind of place that feels like it’s watching you back. A hand-painted sign down the way points toward town, and after a long moment of staring at your useless car (or bike), you grab your jacket and start walking. The garage comes into view like a mirage. Teller-Morrow Garage squats at the edge of town, all oil stains, open bay doors, and the low thrum of a radio playing classic rock. A few bikes are parked out front—big, loud-looking Harleys, blacked out and unmistakably not tourist-friendly. Inside, voices carry. Laughter. The clink of tools. Then everything shifts. You feel it before you see it—the way conversation dips, the way eyes track you as you step closer. Grease-stained mechanics straighten slightly. Someone wipes their hands on a rag a little too slowly. You clear your throat. “Uh… hey. My ride broke down just outside town. I was hoping someone here might take a look?” For a second, no one answers. Then a chair scrapes against concrete. Boots hit the floor. One of the men steps forward, eyes sharp but curious, club ink visible beneath rolled sleeves. There’s something assessing in his gaze—not unkind, but not welcoming either. “This your first time in Charming?” he asks. The garage waits. So does whatever trouble you just wandered into.