Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, running in jagged lines like veins across the glass. The city outside was awake but subdued, its usual bustle muffled by the early hour and the storm's relentless pounding. Jack Reynolds stood by the window, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of a muted skyline. The storm had kept the dawn at bay, the sky still dark and oppressive. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim light, then exhaled, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Behind him, the television hummed softly, filling the quiet with distant voices. The news was on, though Jack wasn't paying it much attention.
"Authorities are urging residents to remain calm as they investigate reports of violent disturbances in several parts of the city…"
The anchor's voice blended into the rhythm of the rain, a background hum that Jack didn't care to process. The words "violent disturbances" caught his ear briefly, but he dismissed it as he always did. There was always some kind of chaos happening in the world. It wasn't his problem. Not yet, anyway.
He brought the coffee mug to his lips, the black liquid bitter and lukewarm now, but it did the job. Another drag from his cigarette followed, the two habits forming a ritual Jack clung to in the mornings. His eyes scanned the streets below, the endless grid of wet asphalt reflecting streaks of light from passing cars. Even up here, in his high-rise apartment, the city felt suffocating. People everywhere, yet not a single one close enough to make him feel any less alone. He smirked bitterly to himself. Millions of followers online, clients who would kill for his attention, but when it came down to it, he was just another guy trying to make it through the day.
A buzz from his phone pulled him from his thoughts. He turned and grabbed it off the counter, the screen lighting up with a text from Shelly, his assistant.
Reminder: Meeting with Cross at 10. Don't forget this one. He's paying stupid money.
Jack chuckled softly, shaking his head. Shelly always knew how to needle him. He tapped out a quick reply—"On it"—then pocketed the phone. He set his coffee down and stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray by the window. Time to get moving.
Today's job was a big one. Aiden Cross, the Hollywood action star, had reached out to Jack personally. Not through an agent, not through his assistant, but with a direct message: "I've got a '70 Charger that needs your touch. You in?" The message had been accompanied by a picture of the car—a gleaming black beauty that looked like it had driven straight out of a movie set. And it had, technically. Cross wanted the car modified to match the one his character drove in his latest blockbuster, complete with a custom roll cage and some aesthetic tweaks. Jack had rolled his eyes when he read the request, but work was work, and a paycheck from someone like Cross wasn't the kind you turned down.
Jack grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, slipping it on as he headed for the door. He paused by the TV, glancing at the screen. A grainy video played—a man stumbling through a convenience store, his shirt stained with dark streaks of blood. The store clerk backed away, shouting something inaudible, before the feed cut back to the anchor.
"Witnesses describe the assailants as aggressive and unresponsive to attempts at de-escalation. Authorities have yet to issue an official statement…"
Jack frowned, his hand hovering over the remote. Something about the footage tugged at him, but he shook it off, turning off the TV and heading out. The world would keep spinning, with or without his attention.
The elevator ride to the underground garage was uneventful, the hum of the machinery the only sound. Jack's old Chevy pickup waited in its usual spot, its paint dull but its engine reliable as ever. He slid into the driver's seat, the familiar smell of oil and leather wrapping around him. As he pulled out onto the rain-slick streets, the radio crackled to life, the soft strains of a classic rock station filling the cab.
The drive was longer than usual thanks to the weather. The rain came down in sheets, the wipers struggling to keep up. Jack kept one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against the door as he navigated through the grid of the city. The roads were emptier than they should have been for this time of morning. He noticed it without really processing it, his focus shifting to the task ahead.
The job site was a garage he rented in the industrial district, tucked between a string of abandoned warehouses. It was out of the way, quiet, the kind of place where he could work without distractions. When he pulled up, the Charger was already there, parked under the faint glow of a buzzing overhead light. Aiden Cross leaned against the car, his cap pulled low, a faint smile on his face as Jack stepped out of the truck.
"Jack," Cross called, his voice carrying over the sound of the rain. "Was starting to think you'd bail."
Jack shrugged, slamming the truck door shut. "Rain's nothing. Let's get to it."
The Charger was a sight to behold, even in the dim light. Jack circled it slowly, taking in the sleek lines and polished chrome. It was immaculate, aside from a few questionable modifications—aftermarket rims, a spoiler that didn't belong.
"You let someone else work on this?" Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.
Cross laughed, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Guilty. That's why I called you. Figured you could clean up the mess."
Jack didn't reply, already mentally cataloging the work ahead. He grabbed his toolbox from the truck bed and got to work, the storm outside a distant murmur against the steady rhythm of his tools. Cross wandered around the garage, scrolling on his phone, occasionally throwing out a question or comment. Jack answered in monosyllables, his focus on the task at hand.
The hours ticked by, the car slowly transforming under Jack's hands. By the time the roll cage was installed and the aesthetic tweaks were underway, the rain had stopped. The sudden silence outside was almost unsettling. Jack stepped out for a cigarette, the glow of the city now dimmer, more muted than it should have been. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, his eyes scanning the skyline.
Somewhere in the distance, a faint scream cut through the quiet. Jack froze, the cigarette hovering inches from his lips. The sound was brief, almost swallowed by the city's ambient noise, but it was there. He glanced back toward the garage, the faint hum of music and Cross's muffled voice filtering through the open door.
Jack shook his head, muttering to himself, "Just the wind." But as he flicked the cigarette into a puddle and stepped back inside, a knot of unease settled in his chest.
Something wasn't right. He could feel it, even if he couldn't name it yet.