There’s a smell that only shows up when something’s wrong in a garage.

  Not the usual cocktail of burnt oil, scorched mana crystals, and whatever Sparks had decided to microwave that week. No, this was different—colder. Sharp, like ozone and smug intentions.

  It rolled in with the morning fog.

  I sat on my bench, pretending to be nothing more than a slightly glowing, suspiciously organized toolbox, and listened as the front door creaked open.

  Grenda looked up from her disassembled axle housing. “We’re not open yet.”

  The figure that stepped inside didn’t seem to care.

  He wore a dark cloak too clean for someone who claimed to be a mechanic, with spotless gloves and a metal case that hummed with something I didn’t like. Not a customer. Not a supplier. The only people that tidy in a place like this were either inspectors or assassins.

  “Name’s Varn,” he said, smiling too broadly. “I heard you do custom magical enhancements on enchanted vehicle cores.”

  Grenda narrowed her eyes. “We do a lot of things. Who sent you?”

  Varn shrugged. “Word gets around. I’ve got a transport crystal carriage with unstable acceleration glyphs. Thought you could take a look.”

  Too smooth. Too rehearsed. I didn’t trust him.

  And neither did my drawers.

  For the first time, I felt something inside me shudder—not from fear, but recognition. There was a pulse in the air. Something about the case he carried made every bolt inside me itch. I focused, stretching my perception, trying to sense what it was. My sockets twitched.

  It was interference. Subtle, woven through the seams of his briefcase like static. A dampening field.

  He was carrying a silencer.

  Not for noise—for magic.

  Grenda, to her credit, didn’t flinch. “Alright, Sparks,” she called over her shoulder. “You’re on triage duty.”

  Sparks came tumbling in from the back, hair wild and sparks (fittingly) crackling from her sleeves. “Ooh, mysterious stranger! Can I poke his equipment?”

  “Not unless he says yes,” Grenda replied.

  Varn smiled again. “I’ll allow it. Just be careful. It’s tuned for precision—one bump, and it resets the enchantment sequence.”

  That was a lie. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.

  He set the case down on the central repair table. Grenda leaned over it while Sparks began scribbling a diagnostic rune in the air.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I listened.

  Inside that case wasn’t a transport crystal core. It was a sigil bomb—a hex-encoded overload matrix wrapped in a suppression field. I could feel the ward lines pressing against the surrounding enchantments like a balloon ready to pop.

  He wasn’t here for repairs.

  He was here to shut us down.

  Bleatford peeked from the front desk with his usual dead-eyed stare.

  “We do not accept unsolicited sabotage,” he said flatly.

  Varn laughed. “What, this? No, no. Just a prototype.”

  “Prototype of sabotage,” I muttered internally.

  I had to act.

  Carefully, I shifted my smallest drawer open half an inch. Sparks’ enchanted chalk was lying nearby. I nudged a hex wrench out and rolled it toward the rune circle she’d drawn.

  She blinked, looking down. “Did… Boxy just toss me a tool?”

  Grenda didn’t look up. “He does that sometimes.”

  Sparks squinted at the tool, then back at me. “Why this one?”

  I buzzed—just slightly. Enough to jostle the whole bench.

  Sparks frowned.

  Then, as she leaned closer to the briefcase, her chalk lines lit up—and fizzled out.

  No magic connection.

  Sparks’ eyes widened. “Grenda, this case is dampening all the rune output. It’s actively scrambling everything.”

  Grenda snapped to attention. “What?”

  Varn’s smile flickered.

  Sparks stepped back. “This isn’t a carriage core. There’s a redline containment loop. It’s primed to detonate.”

  Grenda reached for her crowbar. “Oh, you son of a—”

  Varn moved fast.

  He slapped the side of the case. The runes lit up. The air cracked with suppressed magical pressure.

  I had no choice.

  Power surged through me. I didn’t channel it—I released it.

  My bottom drawer snapped open like a piston, firing a socket with more force than I thought possible. It hit the case dead-center, disrupting the activation glyph.

  A pulse of energy rippled through the garage. Lights flickered. Sparks yelped and fell backward. The sigil bomb hiccupped—and then detonated in reverse, folding inward into a stasis lock.

  Time paused.

  And then snapped forward again.

  The case was inert. Varn was flat on his back. Grenda had a foot on his chest and the crowbar at his throat.

  “Start talking,” she growled.

  Varn choked. “It wasn’t personal.”

  “It’s about to be,” she replied.

  Bleatford waddled forward, completely unbothered. “Should I contact the authorities or dispose of him with our new dumpster portal?”

  “Wait,” Sparks said, helping me roll one drawer back into place. “I think this guy was sent by someone. Look at the brand mark under his collar.”

  Grenda yanked it back. There it was—a stylized gear with an eye in the center.

  The symbol of Wrenchspire, the rival guild-run shop across the valley. Known for overpriced enchantments, smug elves, and constant attempts to sabotage their competition.

  “Cowards,” Grenda spat. “They never got over losing that contract to us last year.”

  Sparks leaned down and whispered to me, “Boxy, you saved us. Again.”

  I buzzed in pride.

  “Do we promote him?” she asked.

  “To what?” Grenda said. “Tool foreman?”

  “Forebox,” Sparks offered.

  Bleatford raised a hoof. “We could register him as an independent contractor.”

  “I don’t have a bank account,” I thought. “Or arms. Or rights.”

  But I was starting to earn respect. That was better.

  That evening, after the Wrenchspire saboteur was tied to a dolly and shipped off to the Portal Station with a very unfriendly coupon book stapled to his shirt, Grenda called a meeting.

  Sparks brought muffins. Bleatford brought contracts. I brought myself.

  “We’re being targeted,” Grenda said. “That makes us important.”

  “Or just really annoying,” Bleatford said.

  “But now we know they’re watching,” Sparks added. “And we’ve got Boxy.”

  Everyone looked at me.

  I opened a drawer and released a satisfying clink.

  They smiled.

  Maybe I wasn’t just a toolbox anymore.

  Maybe I was part of the crew.

  And maybe, just maybe, the weird glowing rune pulsing quietly inside me was something they’d be scared of—if they knew what it really was.

  And something told me… they would soon.