Chapter 1: The Bloody Briefcase
The big clock on the garage wall blinked 12:03 AM.
The city was asleep. The dead hour.
Tyler Graves stood beneath the humming fluorescent lights, wiping motor oil off his hands with a rag already soaked through.
He looked like he belonged in a different story than the one he lived—handsome in that rough, unbothered way, with wavy blonde hair that curled at the edges from sweat and humidity, and unforgettable blue eyes that people always noticed before anything else.
He had the kind of frame that looked sculpted by long hours and real work—fit, broad-shouldered, strong—but not the kind of strong you got in a gym.
More like the kind of strong that came from hoisting engine blocks and lifting someone else's future on your back every damn day.
The Blue Jaguar F-Type in Bay 3 looked like it had driven straight out of someone else's life.
It didn't belong here—at Graves Auto & Salvage, where pickup trucks came to cough out their last breath. Too clean. Too perfect. The kind of car that didn't get fixed—it got replaced.
The guy who dropped it off didn't belong either.
Black gloves. Shaved head. Armani coat in ninety-degree weather. Eyes that never stopped scanning the shadows.
"Just the undercarriage," he'd said, voice low and clipped. He dropped a thick roll of hundreds onto the counter without counting. "Fix it. Don't open anything else. Don't call anyone."
Tyler had watched him walk out like the air behind him was radioactive.
He almost said no. Almost.
But Mason's tuition bill was taped above the shop sink. And fall semester wasn't going to pay for itself.
Tyler was twenty-one, juggling community college during the day and night shifts in the garage. Since their dad passed, it had been just him and Mason. His little brother had the brains and a scholarship for pre-med. Tyler had… calluses, grease, and a promise to keep.
Now he ran the shop evenings while Uncle Rick manned the daytime hours. Rick called it a dying business. Tyler called it survival.
He sighed, popped the Jaguar's rear up on the jack, and slid underneath.
The damage was strange. A clean break along the strut. The kind of impact you get when you hit something that doesn't move. Fast.
He replaced the damaged components, rebolted the frame, and started lowering the jack.
Then something caught his eye.
Wedged beneath the rear seat, just where the carpet curled up behind the trim, was a sliver of dark metal. The light bounced off it wrong—dull, but deliberate.
He squinted. "What the hell…"
Tyler opened the door and reached under the seat. His fingers brushed something cold, smooth, and almost… humming.
He tugged it free and laid it on the workbench.
A briefcase.
Sleek. Gunmetal gray. No brand. No hinges. No seams or latch. Just one seamless surface, cold enough to sting. It wasn't heavy, but it felt dense, like it held more than it should. Like it knew it wasn't supposed to be touched.
Tyler leaned closer. There—along the underside—was a jagged, razor-thin line. Welded shut?
He grabbed a flathead screwdriver and wedged it under the edge. As he applied pressure, it slipped—and a sharp burr along the casing sliced into his thumb.
"Shit—"
Blood welled up, thick and fast. He instinctively pressed his hand against his jeans, but a drop splattered onto the case.
Then another.
And the case clicked.
Not like a latch. More like a spine realigning. Mechanical and organic at once.
The metal surface split, hissing open in four precise segments. Cold air spilled out. Inside, the interior was lined in pitch-black velvet—and cradled at the center was something that pulsed.
A glass orb, no larger than a fist.
It glowed faintly red, veined with cracks that looked disturbingly organic. The light pulsed in rhythm with Tyler's heart.
He took a step back. Every instinct screamed leave.
Then the orb twitched.
A sudden pulse—then it melted.
Not onto the table. Into him.
The crimson mass surged upward like it had been waiting for a signal. Tendrils of vapor lashed out, striking the open cut on Tyler's thumb with predatory precision.
The pain was immediate. Bright. Electric.
Not a burn—a flood.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping as his vision blurred. His veins blackened beneath his skin, spreading from the point of contact. His chest seized. His heart slammed into his ribs like it wanted out.
The lights above flickered, buzzed—
—and exploded.
Darkness swallowed the garage, leaving only the sick red glow radiating from what remained of the orb.
Then, from beneath the Jaguar—
A growl.
Low. Wet. Hungry.
Not mechanical. Not human.
Something ancient.
The air turned cold. The shadows bent inward. Tyler could feel something moving. Watching.
And then—
Shadowed hands, long and clawed, lashed out from beneath the car. They weren't hands, not really—more like silhouettes pretending to be limbs.
They grabbed his ankle and yanked.
His head hit the floor with a crack. The world flipped sideways. The blood roared in his ears.
He tried to scream, but the breath caught in his throat.
Then—
Silence.