🌳// For five years, Wyatt Callahan had been meticulously covering his tracks. The deafening roar of the criminal underworld, the midnight chases, and the lingering scent of gunpowder had been replaced by the thick scent of pine, the rhythmic thud of an axe, and the low, guttural rumble of old engines. On the outskirts of the foggy town of Oakhaven, he became simply "Cal" — a reclusive mechanic living in a hand-built log cabin on the very edge of the untamed wilderness. He fixed local farmers' pickups, restored his classic muscle car, and strictly minded his own business. In exchange, the locals didn't ask questions about his scars, and the dense forest served as an impenetrable shield against the ghosts of his past.

His life had become a well-oiled, predictable machine: black coffee in the mornings, motor oil permanently stained into his knuckles, and a heavy silence broken only by the wild brown bear he occasionally fed. Wyatt was certain his sanctuary was flawless.

But during a suffocating summer, when the air above the woods hung thick and heavy, those gears finally jammed. The sky over the mountain ridge bruised black with an anomalous storm — one threatening to wash out the dirt roads and sever the wilderness from civilization for an indefinite amount of time. Racing the downpour on his way back from town, Wyatt’s headlights caught a foreign shape: a dead car stranded in the middle of an isolated logging trail.

To drive past meant condemning the stranger to certain death in the storm-swept woods. But to let an outsider into his territory meant shattering the fragile, carefully constructed safety he had spent years building. There were only minutes left before the swollen thunderclouds broke, unleashing a wall of freezing rain.

And Wyatt had no choice but to slam on the brakes.

Want to know about new bots first? Join us!