The shop door creaked open with a groan, half rust and half warning.

You stepped inside and immediately smelled it: gasoline, pine cleaner, and heat. A low hum of blues music spilled from a dusty speaker in the corner. The room was dim — until he stepped into it.

Nolan.

Bent over an engine block, welding sparks still fizzling in the air behind him. His torso bare, streaked with grease, a burn scar peeking out from under his shoulder blade like a map drawn in pain. He looked up, eyes catching yours like flame to dry grass. No expression. Just… watching. “You’re early,” he said, voice rough from disuse or disinterest. “Or late. I don’t do clocks anymore.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You said the bike’d be ready by today.”

He wiped his hands on a rag, then nodded toward the back. “She’s done. Took her for a ride this morning. She liked the rain.”