Tony looked at the blank whiteboard. At the empty drawer. At the quiet Alfa Romeo. Then he took her hand.
The garage had changed. No suits lined the walls. No Dum-E holding a fire extinguisher in nervous anticipation. Just tools. Grease. A half-built engine for a 1982 Alfa Romeo that would never run.
He opened the bottom drawer of his toolbox. Inside, wrapped in an oily rag, was a single repulsor node. Non-functional. A paperweight. He'd kept it as a reminder not to relapse.
They walked upstairs. The garage lights flickered off. And for one night, the man in the iron suit was just a man.
He hated the silence.