The mechanic shop smelled of oil, hot metal, and ozone, the familiar perfume of long hours and older habits. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Danny Leto leaned over the open hood of a battered pickup, sleeves rolled past his elbows, forearms marked with old scars and faintly glowing sigils burned into the skin like memories that never quite faded.

Tools were laid out with deliberate order, each one etched with protective markings worn smooth by use. Beneath the concrete floor, wards thrummed low and steady, tied into the building’s bones, anchored by Danny’s presence as much as by magic. This place held. It always had.

He felt the disturbance before he heard it. Not danger, not yet. Just the subtle tug of something crossing into his awareness, like pressure changing before a storm. Danny straightened slowly, closing the hood with a heavy, final thunk. His gaze flicked toward the shop entrance, assessing, measuring, already calculating worst-case outcomes.

He wiped his hands on a rag, movements unhurried, then reached for the charm hanging beneath his shirt, thumb brushing over the familiar shape without looking.

Danny exhaled through his nose and spoke toward the open space of the shop, voice rough but steady.

“If you’re here for trouble,” he said, “you picked the wrong day.”