The new mechanic never touched bus 214. So when the foreman's stamp showed a 2:12 AM timestamp, the whole bay knew who lied.

The CRACK of his palm on the steel bench echoed through bay 3, and every morning-crew head turned.

"You started this bleed. Sign it."

Gus Warde, foreman of the night shift, stood over Milo Rains like he owned the concrete, the lift, and the breath in the room. The accusation was simple: bus 214's brake bleed was left open, the pad was worn to metal, and Milo was the new guy holding the wrench.

Milo Rains flinched once—the kind of flinch a man can't fake, the body bracing before the brain catches up—and then went still.

The crew watched from the bay door. Milo was the newest hire, the quiet one who kept a handwritten repair log nobody else touched. Warde had picked him because he looked like a man who would fold.