The garage hunched at the edge of the industrial estate like a relic someone had tried and failed to throw away.

  Corrugated iron walls sweated rust. A sodium lamp buzzed overhead, flickering like it regretted being alive. Diesel, oil, scorched metal—those smells had seeped so deep into the concrete they’d outlast the building. Scrap metal crowded the fence line: twisted rims, snapped axles, frames that had forgotten their purpose. Junk to most. Raw material to anyone who believed in resurrection.

  A hydraulic lift groaned.

  Silas lay beneath a car, locked in a losing brawl with an exhaust pipe. His overalls were a map of stains. His hands were blackened, knuckles swollen from decades of mechanical disagreements.

  The shutter clattered. Kam ducked under it.

  “Silas.”

  No reply.

  Silas gave the exhaust a final, punishing twist. Metal screamed. Something surrendered. Only then did he slide out, eyes carrying a fatigue sleep couldn’t negotiate with.

  “You’re late.”

  He wiped his hands on a rag that had once been white, in another lifetime.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Your mum came by,” he said. “Crying.”

  Kam froze.

  Silas jerked his chin toward a battered CCTV monitor bolted to the wall. The feed jittered, warped, like the street outside was underwater.

  “The system’s clocked me as your vendor,” Silas said. “Card reader died this morning.” A beat. “Cash only now.”

  Heat rippled off Kam’s skin, the air shimmering like tarmac in August.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Shut it,” Silas snorted. “I’ve been dodging tax since ’90. I can dodge a rogue algorithm.”

  He walked toward the back of the garage. Kam followed.

  The rear wall was a shrine to unfinished ideas—engine skeletons, gutted radios, power tools older than Kam but still loyal.

  Silas stopped at a workbench draped with a heavy tarp. He grabbed it. Yanked it free.

  A chest plate sat beneath.

  Crude. Brutal. Honest.

  Rebar welded into a rough cage. Ceramic tiles layered over it, scorched and glazed like they’d already survived a firestorm. Edges jagged. Purpose unmistakable.

  “Figured you’d run out of hoodies eventually,” Silas said.

  He hefted it up and dropped it onto the bench. The impact rattled tools.

  “It’s heavy. It’s ugly. But it’ll keep you from melting the furniture.”

  Kam stepped in. Touched it. It was warm—responsive, almost. Containing, not leaking.

  “You made this?”

  Silas shook his head. “I modified it.”

  That was the important part.

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a burner phone—cheap, anonymous, impatient. He pressed it into Kam’s hand.

  “Your dad’s looking for you. Walks the estate every night. Same route. Same time.”

  Kam’s throat tightened.

  Silas set a heavy, oil-stained hand on his shoulder. Not gentle. Solid.

  “That’s the cost, son.”

  Kam met his eyes.

  “You don’t get to say goodbye until you fix the thing that broke the world.”

  The silence that followed was thick enough to taste.

  Behind Kam, Leo cleared his throat.

  “Silas… you got any gold?”

  Silas turned, slow as a hinge that needed oil.

  “I need high conductivity,” Leo said. “Building a scrambler. Short range. Offline.”

  Silas exhaled through his nose—long, weary, like he was counting the last favours he had left.

  He reached up. Snapped the St. Christopher medallion from his neck. The chain chimed softly as he dropped it into Leo’s palm.

  “Don’t waste it.”

  Leo stared at the medallion, then at Silas. A single nod.

  Kam lifted the chest plate. It dragged at him immediately. Demanded something. Commitment. Consequence.

  Kam fitted the plate to his torso.

  ?For the first time, the heat didn’t bleed out. It held.

  ?Silas watched him.

  ?No payment changed hands.

  ?The card reader on the wall stayed dark.

  ?Transaction: Offline.