There are few things that strike fear into the heart of a mechanic like the phrase “mandatory surprise inspection.”

  Grenda read the notice on the scroll, crumpled it into a ball, set it on fire, stomped it out, and then re-read the ash like it had betrayed her.

  “Today. Why does it have to be today?” she muttered, pacing the length of the shop.

  Sparks was upside down in a barrel, attempting to “fix” her new experimental wrench by soaking it in fizzy potion. “What’s wrong with today?”

  Grenda spun to face her. “Because today the Arcane Department of Occupational Safety and Harmful Experiments is coming, and if they see any of your enchanted cutlery, they’ll classify us as a Level Three Hazardous Worksite.”

  Sparks gasped. “We could make it to Level Three?! That’s an upgrade from last year!”

  Grenda looked like she was considering locking herself in the parts closet for the rest of the day.

  Bleatford, ever calm, popped in with a clipboard and a tiny tie. “I’ve hidden the cursed signage, filed a falsified safety audit, and updated the bribery budget.”

  Sparks clapped. “You’re the best, Mr. B!”

  “I’ve also filed a whistleblower report against myself. Just in case.”

  I admired his style.

  Two hours later, the inspector arrived.

  He was human, balding, and wore a gray robe pressed so stiffly it looked like it had never been exposed to joy. A glowing quill hovered behind him, scribbling notes without mercy.

  “I am Inspector Gelthus,” he said, scanning the garage like he expected it to explode. “I will be evaluating your workspace, magical compliance, and worker safety protocols. Also, I was told there would be coffee.”

  Bleatford silently slid a cup across the counter.

  Gelthus sniffed it, took a sip, and nodded. “Acceptable. Proceeding.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  I swear I felt Grenda hold her breath for six straight minutes.

  The inspection was going well—by which I mean nothing had actively caught fire yet.

  Gelthus examined the enchanted engine hoist, raised a brow at the mop bucket (which was camouflaged under a tarp labeled “Do Not Touch – Severe Ennui”), and quizzed Sparks on emergency protocols.

  Her answers included “panic,” “blame the goat,” and “create an illusion of a functioning shop.”

  Bleatford handed her a legally-distinct gold star sticker labeled “You Tried.”

  Then the inspector spotted me.

  “Hm,” he said, peering at my slightly dented frame. “Sentient tool storage unit?”

  Grenda stiffened. “Uh, no, just a toolbox.”

  “Decorative,” Sparks added helpfully.

  Gelthus tapped his clipboard. “It’s glowing.”

  “No, it’s... reflective,” Grenda said. “Polished. Yesterday. With wizard wax.”

  Sparks gave me a wink. I responded by nudging a washer off the edge of my drawer. Subtle. Mysterious.

  Gelthus crouched beside me. “It radiates dormant enchantment. Possibly ancient.”

  I rattled slightly.

  “Hm. Potential violation of Form 13-B, Article 7: ‘Unregistered Magical Storage Entities.’ I’ll need to—”

  A loud BOOM echoed from the back room.

  Everyone froze.

  The inspector sighed, stood up, and muttered, “Why is it always the back room?”

  What followed was a blur.

  One of Sparks’ rune experiments had destabilized a mana core. The cursed signage Bleatford hid had unfolded itself and started offering coupons to the inspector. The mop bucket bit someone.

  And me?

  I activated the rune inside me again.

  I still didn’t fully understand how. I just focused—on the chaos, on the tools inside me, on protecting the shop—and the drawer burst open in a flash of radiant light.

  A ripple of stabilizing magic pulsed through the room, sealing the errant mana core, banishing the coupons, and causing the mop bucket to burp and pass out.

  Everyone stared.

  The inspector adjusted his glasses. “...You said decorative?”

  “It’s very committed to the role,” Grenda said through gritted teeth.

  Sparks beamed. “Boxy’s the soul of the garage!”

  Bleatford muttered, “Our insurance doesn’t cover soul-bound toolboxes.”

  Ten minutes later, Gelthus stood at the threshold, clipboard tucked under one arm, still smoldering slightly from the signage incident.

  “You failed the inspection,” he said.

  Sparks gasped. “What?!”

  He held up a finger. “However, due to the stabilizing enchantment emitted by your, ahem, ‘decorative toolbox,’ and the surprisingly effective goat-led administrative team, you are now classified as a Controlled Chaotic Workspace.”

  Grenda blinked. “That’s... a thing?”

  “It is now,” Gelthus said grimly. “Just don’t let that toolbox go fully sentient. The paperwork is a nightmare.”

  He vanished in a puff of bureaucracy.

  That night, the shop was calm.

  Sparks had fallen asleep at her desk, cradling a rune-inscribed mug labeled “World’s Okayest Pyromage.” Bleatford was doing taxes with a glass of red wine and a faint aura of despair.

  Grenda walked over to me.

  She didn’t say anything at first.

  Then she pulled a soft cloth from her pocket and wiped a smudge off my lid.

  “You did good today,” she said quietly.

  I rattled in response. Grateful. Proud.

  Maybe not just a toolbox anymore.

  Not just.

  Not for long.