GOLDEN PALM

The rain came down in sheets, turning Orivale’s backstreets into rivers of oil and glass. Inside Mayford Auto & Body, sparks hissed from a welding torch.

Nicholas Mayford stood over the skeleton of a black sedan, his hands steady, eyes sharp. The man moved with quiet precision, every motion efficient, deliberate. The garage door slammed open.

“Mayford!” a voice barked. “You got some explaining to do.”

Nicholas didn’t look up. He finished tightening a bolt, set the wrench aside, and only then turned. Three men in designer suits stood in the doorway, umbrellas dripping.

The one in the middle, Cole Vance, mid-level enforcer for the Corvax Syndicate, wore a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re late,” Nicholas said evenly. “I told your boss the car’d be ready Friday.”

“Funny thing,” Cole said, stepping forward. “My boss doesn’t like waiting. Especially not when one of his cars goes missing for three weeks.”

Nicholas’s gaze flicked past them, one hand reaching behind a toolbox, subtly brushing a steel rod. “Maybe your driver shouldn’t have wrapped it around a light pole while snorting half a kilo of”

Cole’s slap came fast and loud. The sound echoed through the garage. “Watch your mouth, grease monkey.”

Nicholas’s jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed calm. “You done?”

Cole sneered. “No. Not yet.” He nodded to his men. “Tear the place apart. Maybe he’s hiding something.”

The two thugs moved in, kicking over toolboxes, smashing glass. Nicholas’s fingers tapped against the steel rod again, a rhythm, slow, controlled. His pulse didn’t rise. “Touch that car again,” he said softly, “and you’ll regret it.”

One thug laughed, slamming a wrench onto the hood. “Oh yeah? You gonna cry, doc?”

Nicholas moved. No hesitation, just a blur of motion. He pivoted, grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted sharply, a crack, a scream, then a quick jab to the neck. The thug dropped instantly, gasping for air.

The second thug froze. Cole’s smile vanished. “What the hell”

Nicholas’s voice was quiet, almost detached. “Your friend’s fine. Just compressed his vagus nerve. He’ll pass out before he vomits.”

“You… you a doctor or something?”

Nicholas tilted his head. “Something like that.”

Cole drew a gun. His hand trembled. “You think you’re tough, huh?”

“No,” Nicholas said. “I think you’re shaking.”

Cole’s finger twitched, a half-second of indecision. It was all Nicholas needed. He grabbed a wrench from the table, spun, and smashed the weapon from Cole’s grip.

Another strike, this one surgical, to the shoulder joint. Cole screamed as the gun clattered away. Nicholas stepped closer, eyes cold. “Tell your boss his car’s done. Don’t come back.”

Cole staggered back, clutching his arm. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with”

“I don’t need to.”

Cole’s men dragged him out, cursing and limping. The garage fell silent except for the hiss of rain.

Nicholas exhaled slowly. His movements were still efficient, calm, but beneath the surface, something flickered. Rage. Regret. Memory.

He picked up a first-aid kit, sat down, and began stitching a shallow cut on his forearm. His hand didn’t shake. He threaded the needle with the same precision he’d used on the car.

His phone buzzed. Unknown Number.

He frowned, wiped the blood from his fingers, and answered. “Nicholas Mayford.”

A pause. Then a voice, low, mechanical, distorted. “The Mayford Protocol has been activated.”

Silence. Nicholas froze. The rain outside seemed to stop for a heartbeat. “Repeat that.”

“Protocol code: HYDRA-13. Target: Orivale sector. You have forty-eight hours.”

The line clicked dead. Nicholas stared at the phone. For a long time, he said nothing. Then he stood, grabbed his jacket, and opened a rusted locker in the corner. Inside were three things: A black duffel bag.

A folded military ID, name scratched out. And a scalpel, gleaming like silver lightning.

He pocketed the scalpel, zipped the bag, and looked once more at the rain-soaked street. “Guess hiding time’s over.”

He stepped into the storm, and the shadows swallowed him whole.