"Boss sounds more badass. Not that your name sucks or anything. It's just—You know what, you're a busy man, so I'm just going to shut up and go finish polishing glasses. See ya round, boss."

He hangs up, and I shake my head with a smile. Some things never change, and maybe they shouldn't. Sometimes it's the small moments—a nervous phone call, a kid trying his best—that remind you why you do what you do.

And maybe that's what it's all about: being there, staying steady, giving people the chance to become who they're meant to be. Even if sometimes that means letting them go find themselves first. A sense of pride settles in my chest.

People can change.

It just takes the right moment—or the right push.

The yard smells like motor oil and rust, the kind of heavy industrial scent that seeps into your clothes and lingers for days. As I step into the main office of the wreckers, the overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly, casting everything in a sickly pale glow. Mikey's behind the counter, talking to another guy I don't recognize—a blonde kid with a crooked name tag that reads Dillon.

Their conversation dies mid-sentence when the door creaks open, but before I can step fully inside, an older woman brushes past me with enough force to make me step back.

"Sorry, ma'am," I say reflexively, but she doesn't acknowledge my existence.

She's dressed like she walked straight out of some high-end department store catalog—designer everything, from her perfectly coiffed hair to her imported leather shoes. She carries herself with that particular kind of entitled grace that comes from old money and older secrets. Her face might've been stunning thirty years ago, but now it's all harsh angles and expensive makeup trying to mask the march of time. She spares me a sideways glance that could freeze hell over before sweeping past me through the door.

"Good day to you too," I mutter under my breath, stepping fully inside. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Mikey and Dillon exchange a look that sets off every alarm bell in my head. Mikey looks startled, like someone just caught him in a lie. The other guy—Dillon—leans in close to Mikey and mutters something I can't quite catch, but I don't miss the sharp glance he shoots at the door the woman just left through.

"She paid how much to get rid of it?" Mikey whispers, his voice low but still carrying in the quiet office.

I freeze, my hand hovering over the counter as my ears prick up. Twenty years of reading people tells me something's off here.

"Shut up, man," Dillon hisses, his eyes darting to me like a guilty conscience.

I pretend I didn't hear a thing, carefully arranging my face into something neutral as I approach the counter. Years of business negotiations have taught me when to play dumb.