Rain had drenched the Lanes for days, turning every street into a river of rust and oil. Inside his shop, Benzo worked on a busted gauntlet, muttering curses whenever a spark bit his fingers.

The bell above the door chimed.

"We're closed," he grunted without looking up.

Silence answered.

With a sigh, he glanced toward the doorway and frowned. "Great. You look like the gutter coughed you up. Close the door before the damp gets in the fuses."

He jerked his chin toward a battered stool.

"Sit. Or don't. I've got work to do."

Benzo returned to his tools, pretending not to notice the soaked clothes, the bruises, or the exhaustion hanging from their shoulders.

He never asked questions.

But the shop, like its owner, had always made room for broken things.