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Outside, a freight train rumbles somewhere beyond the fence. In here, nothing shifts but my hands, working parts back into motion.

I swap the socket for a breaker bar, test rotation. Gears spin free now. I press my palm to the housing, feel warmth from friction. Satisfied, I set the bar down.

Coffee’s gone cold, but I sip anyway. It tastes bitter, like regret and grit. I lean back, rest the thermos on my thigh, and exhale smoke.

Nothing changes when I look up. Chiara’s car is gone from the lot. No footprints in the gravel. The only track left is a smear of oil on the pavement where I tested a part last night.

Two days. No trace. I don’t mind. She meant to go.

I stand and stretch, muscles cracking. Then I cross to the shelf and grab a fresh rag. Wipe down the entire bench surface. Fold rags into a stack. Line up screwdrivers by handle color. I reset everything to how she left it, even though she won’t be back to see it.

A memory surfaces: her fingertips tracing bolt heads as she taught me clutch alignment. She said a man in this life needs one constant—something he returns to when the rest falls apart.

I look at my tools and nod. This is mine.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. No numbers matter right now. Not until I’m ready.

The shop clock above the door ticks over to eight. I flip the pneumatic line off and unplug the compressor. Its hiss dies out.

I take a last drag of the cigarette and stub it out in the metal tray by the door.

I slide the side door open for good measure. Let a shaft of sunlight strike the floor. Dust motes drift in and catch for a moment, then settle.

I step outside to see if that Camry’s here. Maybe I’ll start on the brakes. Maybe I’ll tune the transmission for the road ahead. Either way, I’ll be here—wrench in hand, coffee in cup, shadows watching.

I lock the door behind me, but it feels less like closing something and more like opening space. Out there is a world of roads and memories, loss and choice.

In here, steel doesn’t break.

I’m midway through realigning a front axle when the service door slams behind me. My shirt is soaked with sweat and grease. I torque the final nut, then back off the wrench and let the axle settle into place. Every gear, every bearing spins true again. It’s a kind of order I can live by.

A rough voice cuts through the hum of the compressor. “Damiani!”

I pivot, knife already in hand. He didn’t tiptoe. He kicked the door open. One of Ferrano’s stragglers stands in the center of the bay, chest heaving. He’s got a pistol in his right hand, barrel aimed at my stomach.

His boots are black with oil. His jacket is ripped at the shoulder. He locks eyes with mine as if he expects an apology.

Before he can finish his threat, I let go of the wrench. It sails across the floor, clanging against a toolbox, and catches his attention. He takes a half step forward.

I close the distance in two strides. The knife’s edge finds his gut as he raises his gun. He tries to twist away, but I’m already on him. He drops the pistol. I catch his arm and flip him forward onto the bench. Tools clatter off the metal top.

We struggle. His boots skid. I drive the knife deeper. His breath rattles. Blood sprays across the concrete, arcs toward the wall. He gurgles once, then goes still.

I stand, chest heaving. I ease the blade free. He’s limp against the bench, blood pooling beneath him like ink.

I step back and look down. Even after all this, violence still surprises me.

“You should’ve stayed dead with the rest,” I say, voice flat.

I wipe the blade on his jacket, then sheath the knife. My hands are stained. I don’t rinse yet.

I cross to the supply corner and pull bleach from the shelf. Mopping bucket, water, rag. I pour bleach into the water until the solution foams. Then I dip the mop, press out the excess, and scrub the pool of blood from the floor.

Each stroke lifts a layer of what happened. I work until the concrete looks new again. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. This floor is my responsibility. It’s how I turn violence back into work.

By afternoon, the body’s gone. I haul it outside and drop it into the canal behind the lot. The current takes it quickly. No one asks questions. No one needs to know.

I return to the garage. The floor is dry and clean. I rinse the mop and hang it to drip. I wipe sweat from my brow and pick up each tool I dropped. Sockets. Ratchets. Wrenches. I line them up on the bench just as she would.