He had to choose the crime he could afford.
Noah took his hand off the feed knob. "Dark," he said.
[Thermal: disabled.][Fans: maintain.]
The enclosure's glow sank to embers behind plastic. The hood kept breathing, drawing a clean, obedient stream at the lip. He pulled the rag tighter across the door's small window and listened.
Gravel whispered at the lane; headlines slid along the fence—too slow for a stranger finding an address, too confident for a delivery. The gate buzzer didn't sound. Metal scraped metal in the lazy way men use when they want you to hear them.
He wiped his palms on his jeans and cracked the door two fingers.
The pickup idled crooked at the chain-link gap. Bix stood in the spill of his headlights, coat collar up, grin trimmed to business. Beside him, a taller man in a dark jacket held himself steady and square. Something metal flashed on his chest when the truck lights swung—a badge pinned to a nylon vest over a tucked shirt. The patch on his shoulder was a county star or a very good idea of one. Noah filed it under [CHECK: off-duty deputy vs. licensed security], same effect either way.
"Evening again," Bix said. "Told you we'd be neighbors."
The man with the badge didn't grin. "Mr. Cole," he said, voice clipped, cop-neutral. "We got a call about tools running after hours. Mind if we take a look?"
"I mind," Noah said, polite, volume steady at the doorway. "You can look from here."
The badge tilted, catching a bit of headlight. "You operating heavy equipment?"
He touched the lenses around his neck like a rosary he didn't believe in. "Fans and cooling. I've got a compliance inspection booked for nine a.m. tomorrow—county and fire. Hood's mounted. Dust minimized."
Bix let a chuckle scrape his teeth. "He's very prepared."
"ID?" Noah asked, eyes on the pin, not the man. "If you're official."
The man thumbed a flip wallet and let a card flash—name, county crest, a photograph that looked enough like him. Noah read the shape, not the letters. He didn't try to memorize. People hate being memorized.
"Appreciate it," Noah said. "You have a warrant for entry?"
"Don't need one for a welfare check," the badge said. "Noise, unsafe operation, possible fire hazard."
"I have a hood," Noah said. "Two ABC extinguishers. No heavy cutting tonight."
"Then open up and show me."
"No," Noah said, still polite. "Equipment's hot. I don't bring people into an active space."
Bix took a half-step like that was his cue. Noah's shoulders filled the doorway without seeming to. Behind him, the box sat like furniture that happened to breathe. The hand rested with its fake cap on, tip down. The cutter wore its rubber boot like a muzzle. The crystal's little hat made it look stupid and safe.
The drone slid in from the right, lens bright, hovering up to the rear window's rag. It tasted the air and smacked the glass once, impatient.
[External devices: 1 drone (active); 2 RF streams (mobile + body-cam).]
Body cam. Noah kept his face boring.
"Mr. Cole," the badge said, "if you're not operating, you got nothing to hide. Let me take a quick look, verify vent and fire suppression, and we're gone."
"I just did that four hours ago with Marin Raines and a fireman," Noah said. He let the names exist in the night like a fence. "She left the red tag and scheduled the inspection. If I open now, I violate my own safety rule and you get to write me up for being an idiot. How about we all like tomorrow better."
Bix's hands found his pockets. "You know what I like better? Paper that moves smooth."
"You sell aggregate," Noah said. "Stick to rocks."
The badge kept his eyes on Noah's, not on the shop. Professional. "You're running fans."
"Cooling," Noah said. He angled his chin toward the hood. "Want to hear the airflow? You can stand there and I'll talk you through capture velocity like we're friends."
Bix laughed under his breath. "He talks like a brochure."
"Tomorrow is the brochure," Noah said, barely turning his head. "Tonight is me making sure nobody burns."
The badge shifted weight once—decision-gathering. "Step back, Mr. Cole."
"No," Noah said. "Not without paper."
They looked at each other and let the night do the math. Behind Noah, the hood's soft, steady note sat on the air like a calming hand. The box didn't blink.
Bix filled the pause. "Neighbors helping neighbors," he said. "We can help with your meter."
Noah didn't look toward the meter. "Don't touch my meter."
"Wasn't planning to," Bix said, which meant he had just added it to his list.
The drone nudged the window again, lens trying to bite through rag and glare. Noah slid a scrap of tin into the hand and pointed. The fingers lifted the sheet to the window's inside, a silent shutter closing over the rag.
"Cute toy," Noah said.
"Public airspace," a voice from the pickup called—the skinny man again, face lit by his screen.
"Private window," Noah said. "Talk to the glass."
The badge let out a long breath that almost was a sigh. "Mr. Cole, I'll note refusal. We'll pass by the inspection in the morning."
"I'll have coffee," Noah said. "No heavy cutting until then."
Bix's grin returned, cheap and warmer. "We'll pass by, too. In case you need sand." He said sand like friend.
"Gate's that way," Noah said.
They didn't argue. The badge nodded once and turned. Bix lingered half a second, his grin making a small promise it couldn't keep, then followed. The drone slipped sideways and up, taking one last frustrated tremble at the glass before retreating. The pickup's taillights swung; gravel made its old music; the night remembered itself.
Noah shut the door and set the bar.
[External pressure: reduced.][Stream: body-cam offline.][Note: rear chain unthreaded.]
"Seen," he said softly.
He waited a full count of sixty with his eyes closed, palms flat on the door, listening for the sloppy step of a liar returning. Nothing but insects and the day cooling.
He crossed to the west wall and put his fingers where the beacon had been. No new grit. He did a slow walk along the interior—listening like a thief for his own house lying to him. The HUD stayed quiet except for the steady love song of fans and a weak pulse from the smart meter doing what smart meters do.
He slid the tin shutter off the window and let the rag be a rag again. The box waited.
He could sleep. He could not sleep. The red tag watched, popular and stupid.
He looked at the list on the bench: SEAM-1 (baseplate) circled; carriage holes; belt guard; shroud bolts. Each item was a day saved when it wasn't stolen.
He set his hands on the enclosure lid and felt the vibration through steel—the smallest shiver of machine wanting to work.
"All right," he said. "One seam. Low."
He closed the tin again, killing the window's last honest angle. He dialed the hood to ninety. He killed the overhead switch twice, out of superstition.
"Profile SEAM-1. Twelve percent. Enclosure closed."
[Profile: SEAM-1.][Thermal: 12%. Vent capture: good.][Safety: acceptable.]
He clamped the plate, checked the clamps, checked them again. The hand braced. The cutter hovered, respectful. The crystal waited under its cap like an animal trained not to bite until the glove was off.
He brought the crystal down until the air between it and the plate remembered to be thin. His fingers found the feed knob and knew it better than they knew people.
Outside, tires whispered far away. A fox barked once near the hedgerow and went about its work. The hood drank air.
He eased the feed a fraction. The seam woke—not the white slap from the first night, but a steady, contained burn, a thin daylight walking behind a window. The odor of warm iron decided not to cross the room. The towel at the lip flickered and leaned harder toward the throat.
He kept his shoulders loose and his eyes on the line. The hand stroked slag away before it tried to be trouble. The cutter guarded the next anchor point, ready to nip tabs the laser left as small loyalties to geometry.
He hit the first corner, slowed, felt heat pool, drifted the beam a shade wider, and let the pool settle. The seam took it. He breathed.
Halfway down the long run, headlights lifted the far fence into ghost ribs.
He didn't stop. He didn't even look up; he watched the line and let the rest of him watch everything else.
Headlights slowed. Gravel searched for the drive. The hood's note didn't change. The box glowed only inside itself.
[External vehicle: 1. Range: 140 m → 120 m.]
"Keep it," he whispered. He shaved a millimeter off traverse to keep the melt pool honest. The seam stayed clean.
The gate chain clinked—soft, testing. A door thunked. A voice—unfamiliar, low—said something that was probably his name. He let it be whoever it needed to be and kept the line true.
The knock on the door came careful—two taps like a polite argument. He didn't answer. The seam marched.
"Mr. Cole," a man's voice called—official without Raines's fatigue. "Sheriff's Office." The badge had found reinforcements or had changed names. "We need to talk about a disturbance earlier."
Noah kept the beam loyal to the chalk. His mouth went dry and stayed with him. He heard the voice again, closer—at the ragged window now. "Lights are on. We can see you moving."
Noah smiled despite it. You can see a fan. You can hear a fan. That's what fans do.
He reached the second corner and let the pool settle, then turned the beam with a hand that did not shake. The hood hummed its faith.
The door got another knock. Firmer. "Open up, Mr. Cole."
Noah let his eyes flick once to the clock—useless—and back to the line. The seam had a minute left if he didn't insult it by rushing. A minute was either forever or a crime; tonight it was both.
"Mr. Cole," the voice called. "We have questions about an altercation at your back door. If you don't open, we'll come back with paper—and friends."
He believed them. He also believed in the physics of clamps and how long a seam takes when you don't lie to it.
The headlights at the fence shifted. Another set turned onto the lane and crawled toward the gate—two cars now; three men talking in the low register of people who like their own certainty.
"Almost," he whispered to the line. The melt pool came even across the last span; the hand whisked slag; the cutter kissed a tab.
He took the traverse down a thread's breadth and watched the last uncut light between plates narrow.
The door rattled and held. A radio chirped unintelligible authority. The pickup's engine idled its impatience.
Noah rode the line to the final tab and let it go—one bright stitch that made two halves one thing.
The seam finished like a decision you can't take back.
He lifted the crystal a centimeter and killed the heat to memory. The hood drank the leftover breath of iron and wanted more. He let the plate rest under the box's weather, right where it had become itself.
He raised his head and listened to the room.
Fans. His heartbeat. Men being certain outside.
He could throw the lid open to cool faster and flash glow where glow had no business. He could leave it closed and pretend silence. He could walk to the door and put his hand on the bar and decide what kind of neighbor he was going to be at two in the morning.
A flashlight stripe cut under the door like a question. Someone tried the latch and learned about the bar.
"Mr. Cole," the voice said, patience thinning now. "Last time."
He turned the hood down to eighty and wiped his palms on his jeans. The seam, behind the window, settled from bright to human.
He stepped toward the door and stopped with his fingers an inch from the bar.
The white seam was warm behind him. The badge was cold in front of him.
He had to pick which heat to honor.
He took one breath, then another, then reached.