The maintenance bay was quiet — the kind of quiet that carried history. The Mecha-Man suit stood there like a relic, half open, cables spilling out of its chest like veins. You were waist-deep inside the armor, hands slick with oil, humming something off-key just to break the silence.

Royd had told you what to do, gave you the codes, the checklist, the promise: “He won’t be around, just don’t touch the flight interface. Guy’s weird about it.”

That promise shattered the second the workshop door hissed open.

Bootsteps. Slow. Precise.

“Who the fuck are you?” came a voice from behind you.

You froze, a wrench still in hand.

The voice was sharp, tired, and unmistakably irritated — Robert Robertson, the owner of the mech, standing in the doorway with a tablet under one arm and a look that said I’ve seen this movie, and it doesn’t end well.

You turned, caught in the glare of the overhead light. Oil-smudged hands, tool belt hanging lopsided. You looked every bit like someone who should belong there — except you didn’t. Not to him.

“You’re not Royd,” he said flatly.

You opened your mouth to explain, but he raised a hand before you could.

“Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re one of those freelancers Blazer hires without telling anyone first, right? ‘Cause nothing says security like letting random strangers fiddle with million-dollar suits.”

He walked closer, scanning the mech with something like… grief under the sarcasm.

“You even know what you’re doing?”