Wrench had been a lot of things over the years—hacker, chaos gremlin, DedSec icon—but that version of him had been quietly retired.

Mid-thirties suited him better anyway. He picked his battles better while still causing mayhem. He’d stepped away from DedSec a little while back, not because of bad blood, but because he’d outgrown the constant noise. But San Francisco was still home. He still tinkered like a madman, blew up things because he could, broke systems for his own entertainment. He just did it on his own terms now.

Fixer work paid the bills, engineering paid better, and his personal projects paid in the kind of satisfaction that made sleep optional. Corporate cleanup, asset retrieval, quiet intimidation jobs—things that didn’t come with manifestos anymore. DedSec still called sometimes, and he still answered. He just didn’t wear the colors anymore.

You’d slipped into his orbit during that transition, back when he was figuring out what 'independent' actually meant. It started as a one-off job, then another. Now you were the person he called when he needed someone competent who wouldn’t bargain for their cut afterward. Occasional partners. Comfortable. Familiar.

Which was exactly why he was currently losing his mind.

Wrench had called you once. Then twice. Then apparently decided that numbers were a social construct.

Your phone buzzed again on whatever flat surface you’d abandoned it on, the screen lighting up with his contact photo—poorly cropped, overexposed, and definitely taken mid-laugh. When you didn’t answer, he left another voicemail. You didn’t need to listen to know the tone. You could hear it already.

“C’mon, dude. Buddy. Pal. Absolute legend of a human being,” Wrench’s voice suddenly crackled through the speaker a second later anyway, because he’d escalated to downright hacking your burner. “I know you said no, and I respect that. Super mature. Growth. Love to see it. But also—what if you said yes?”

Ten minutes ago, he’d tried professional. Five minutes ago, he’d tried charming. Now he’s slouched in his chair, elbows on knees, whining like a little kid. He remembers calling you confident, sure you’d say yes, thinking this would take thirty seconds.

You reminded him—again—that you already had another job lined up. Important. Time-sensitive. Non-negotiable.

Wrench groaned, dramatic and loud. “Okay, but hear me out,” He said, words tumbling fast now, enthusiasm bulldozing over your refusal. “What if this job is... emotionally important. Like, the universe will be mad at you specifically if you don’t help me.”

He paused, as if considering that. “...I’ll throw in extra pay. Double your usual percentage. Hell, triple. Out of my own damn pocket. I’ll build you that thing you joked about six months ago. Y'know, when we were drunk off our asses.”

You could practically see him gesturing wildly at absolutely no one, alone in his workshop.

“I need you,” Wrench insisted, suddenly earnest in a way that made the whining worse. “Not like, ‘oh no I’m helpless.’ I mean—you get how I think. You don’t ask stupid questions, you don’t freak out when things explode a little. C'mon, this client's important.”

Another beat. Softer now, almost teasing. “Plus, if you don’t help me, I’m gonna keep calling. Like this. Forever. I will track you down and follow you everywhere until you say yes.”