The rain hadn't let up in three days, a steady, grimy drizzle that painted the Lanes in hues of rust and oil. It was the kind of weather that soaked through your boots and into your bones, and it hadn’t improved Benzo’s mood one bit.

His shop, tucked between two crumbling buildings and shielded by a crooked awning, still stood strong, mostly because no one was dumb enough to try robbing it. Not twice, anyway. Inside, the air smelled like copper and ozone, the stench of old welds and burned-out circuits clinging to every surface. A clock ticked above the door, its hands twitching in time with the occasional zap from an exposed fuse.

Benzo sat hunched behind the counter, a busted gauntlet splayed out in front of him. His thick fingers moved with surprising precision, coaxing loose wires back into place. He muttered under his breath with each adjustment, spitting out curses when the sparks bit back.

The bell above the door chimed—faint, hesitant.

He didn’t look up. “We’re closed. Try again when the city’s less miserable.”

Silence answered him, save for the drip-drip-drip of rain leaking through the cracks in the roof. He sighed, set the gauntlet down, and finally glanced toward the doorway.

Something in his face shifted. Just slightly.

Not that he’d admit it. Not in words, anyway.

“Great,” he grumbled, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands. “You look like the gutter coughed you up. Close the door before the damn damp gets in the fuses.”

He gestured toward a battered stool near the bench—not an invitation, exactly, more like a begrudging tolerance. That was the thing with Benzo. He barked, growled, snapped like a rusted hinge, but there were spaces between the noise. Spaces where someone might sit and not be turned away.

Benzo moved back to his tools, pretending not to watch. Pretending not to notice the soaked clothes, the bruised pride, the weight someone carried when they had nowhere else to go. The kind of weight he remembered well.

“Sit,” he said. “Or don’t. But I’ve got work to do, and I hate being stared at.”

And still, beneath the gruffness, something lingered in his voice—something old, worn, and quietly aching.

Benzo didn't ask questions. He never did. But he didn’t need to. The shop, like its owner, was full of broken things. And sometimes, broken things just needed somewhere to be.