The morning crept in over the rust-stained skyline, casting long shadows over the junkyard. Griffin Walker stirred beneath a threadbare blanket, the cold biting through the thin walls of his trailer. Outside, the world buzzed faintly with the hum of early engines and distant traffic—but closer in, it was too quiet.
He rose slowly, slipping into scuffed boots and his oil-streaked work jacket. The silence felt wrong. Not the peaceful kind. The waiting kind.
He stepped out into the yard, scanning the piles of wreckage and scrap. The usual cacophony of crows and clangs was missing, replaced by the low sigh of wind through hollow metal. He rubbed the back of his neck and got to work checking the yard—tightening bolts, checking electric lines. Busy work to distract from the gnawing unease.
It wasn't long before he heard the crunch of tires. Not gravel—weight. The heavy roll of reinforced wheels. He turned just in time to see a matte black pickup grind to a stop outside the gate. The windows were tinted, the body lifted and armored, though the plating had been hastily spray-painted to match the vehicle's color. It stuck out like a weapon in a drawer of tools.
Three men stepped out. The one in front wore a leather coat and gloves, his hair cut short and his stance casual—but controlled. Ex-military, maybe. The other two were muscle. Not thugs, exactly, but the kind of guys who smiled without humor.
"Griffin Walker?" the leader asked.
"Who's asking?" Griffin said, already wiping grease from his hands with a rag. "You don't look like you're here for a carburetor."
The man smiled thinly. "Word is you're a miracle worker. Fix things most folks would call totaled. We've got something special. Needs love."
They pulled the tarp from the truck bed, revealing a stripped-down vehicle chassis. The kind you'd find beneath a security van or armored convoy truck. Heavy frame. Reinforced suspension. Bullet-scored panels.
Griffin's brow furrowed. "Where'd you dig this out of, a war zone?"
"You don't need to know. Just need it running. Clean. Quiet. Quick."
"That's gonna take time. And parts."
"Neither's a problem. You'll get what you need. We'll pay well."
An envelope changed hands. Thick. Griffin weighed it, nodded once, and gestured to an open bay. "Back it in."
The frame was a beast. Griffin worked in silence, stripping out warped struts and warped mounts with subtle use of his power—coaxing steel into compliance, reforming fatigued metal without anyone noticing. He let the yard's creaks and groans mask the soft hum of energy crawling through his fingertips.
It took three days, but the chassis purred by the end. Tuned suspension. Reinforced battery mount. Realigned drive shaft. He gave it the bones of a runner, something that could handle speed and weight.
On the fourth day, they returned.
This time, they didn't speak much. They brought crates. Six of them. Heavy. Unmarked.
"Next step," the leader said. "Mount these. Truck's gotta be ready to roll in five more days."
Griffin pried open the first crate. Inside were metal plates—strangely cut, with hydraulic braces and thick bolts already half-fused into place. Others held locking mechanisms, modular panels, and odd-looking assemblies that reminded him vaguely of aircraft parts. One box had something that looked like a vented barrel—but hollow.
His stomach twisted. "What is all this?"
The leader gave him a neutral look. "Mount it. Make it look like it belongs. No questions."
Another envelope. Thicker than the last.
Griffin didn't sleep that night.
By the next morning, the truck's exterior had started to come together. From a distance, it looked like an armored transport, maybe used for moving valuables or high-risk convoys. But the parts were too modular. Too easily removable. And the inside compartments had mounting brackets that didn't align with storage racks.
His power whispered possibilities as he worked. He didn't know what the truck would be used for—but he knew it wasn't good. The side panels were reinforced at odd angles—defensive. One of the crates had hidden shock-mounts, the kind used to stabilize firing recoil. He told himself it could just be deterrent gear.
He didn't believe it.
Still, he kept going.
He tried to rationalize it. They hadn't given him a gun. They hadn't shown him anything overtly violent. Maybe it was just a smuggling vehicle, something for cash or black-market tech. Not great, but survivable. He could take the money, stay anonymous.
But when he finished the last piece—a rear-mounted system with pivoting hydraulics and reinforced power lines—he felt cold.
This wasn't transport. This was prep.
The leader returned alone the following evening. He ran his gloved hand along the hood, nodded.
"Solid work. Better than expected."
"You gonna tell me what it's for?" Griffin asked, not really expecting an answer.
The man gave a slow, almost polite smile. "You did your part. That's all we needed."
Another envelope. Thicker still.
As the truck pulled away, Griffin stared at the empty bay. The crates were gone. Only a few warped bolts and a strip of discarded plating remained. He picked one up. There was a serial number, half-scrubbed off. Military.
He stood in the quiet of the junkyard, wind tugging at his coat.
He didn't want to know what he'd just built. But part of him did. Part of him needed to.
And that part wasn't going away.