In the days that followed the attack, life at Hancock Fortress fell back into its odd rhythm of survival and sarcasm.  

A few new trades came in—scrap metal for canned food, fuel for medicine, even one strange request for “a working toaster,” which Kayla rejected on principle.  

And somewhere between the paperwork and the endless hum of generators, Nara Vivienne began to fit in.  

Her tasks rotated: kitchen duty once every few days, light maintenance work, and lately… the basement.  

The basement was Gene’s private sanctuary.  

It wasn’t listed on the trade maps or the defensive schematics.  

Most people thought of it as storage—but to him, it was a museum.  

The first underground level was lined with dust-covered silhouettes of vehicles from a world that had vanished: muscle cars, rusted convertibles, the remains of motorcycles with names like legends—*Rattlesnake, Thunderbird, Marauder.*  

Each one carried the scent of oil, dust, and nostalgia.

That morning, Kayla had assigned Nara to sort through the parts and clean the engine bays.  

By evening, word reached Gene through the fortress grapevine.  

He looked up from his console and asked casually, “Hey, where’s Nara? What’s she doing today?”  

Kayla, busy writing down ration numbers, didn’t even glance up. “Last I saw, she was in the basement, elbow-deep in your junkyard of cars.”  

Gene’s eyebrows lifted. “She’s working *down there*? She knows engines?”  

“Who knows?” Kayla shrugged. “Maybe she’s just pretending to fix things. Why don’t you go *check* on her?”  

He recognized the bait immediately.  

That “check” wasn’t a suggestion—it was a test, and Kayla’s tone carried all the challenge of someone sharpening a knife.  

Still… it was his cars. His *babies.* And curiosity was stronger than fear—for the moment.  

He hesitated a beat too long, then stood.  

“I’ll just… check on her. For maintenance reasons,” he said lamely.  

Liz snorted. “Sure, maintenance. That’s what they’re calling it now.”  

Ignoring her, Gene grabbed a flashlight and made his way down the concrete steps.  

The lower air was cooler, filled with the scent of old rubber and machine grease.  

He found her easily—kneeling beside the Rattlesnake, a 2073 pre-collapse model, all curves and chrome under a decade of dust.  

The hood was propped open; tools scattered neatly in a semicircle.  

Her hands moved with focus, unscrewing bolts, cleaning each piece with rag and solvent.  

For a man who usually found chaos relaxing, the sight was strangely peaceful.  

> **System:** “Observation: Nara Vivienne engaged in mechanical restoration.  

>  Current work-focus attractiveness level: 93%. Recommend long-term observation.”  

Gene pinched the bridge of his nose. *Are you grading her like she’s a used car?*  

> **System:** “Correction—vintage model, excellent craftsmanship.”  

*I swear to god…*  

Nara turned suddenly, sensing movement.  

When she saw him standing there, flashlight haloing the dust, her eyes widened.  

She nearly dropped the wrench.  

“Ah—hello, Great Supplier!” she said quickly, wiping her hands on a rag.  

Gene raised both hands in surrender. “Let’s skip the titles. 

Nobody calls me that here. If someone does, they’re usually mocking me.”  

He smiled faintly. “Just call me Gene.”  

She hesitated, then nodded, a little embarrassed. “Alright… Gene.”  

He stepped closer, glancing at the Rattlesnake’s open chassis.  

The engine block was half-disassembled, parts lined up like soldiers. 

She had even tagged the bolts with bits of tape.  

“You did all this?” he asked.  

Nara nodded. “It’s old, but the design’s beautiful. The pistons are worn, the injectors are rusted—but it’s solid underneath.”  

Her hands trembled slightly from fatigue. “I just thought… if I could get one running again, it might be something worth saving.”  

Gene crouched beside her, eyes tracing the smooth curves of the car.  

“Something worth saving,” he echoed softly. “That’s what I said about this place once.”  

He straightened, brushing dust off his sleeve. “Missing anything?”  

“Maybe,” she said after a moment. “Is there a paint area here? 

And a small lathe, if possible. Some parts are worn out—if I have the right metal stock, I can machine replacements by hand.”  

Gene blinked, then grinned. “You *can* machine parts?”  

Nara’s expression softened with a hint of pride. “Before the collapse, I drove transport trucks. Fixed them too. Someone had to.”  

He nodded slowly, impressed. “Alright. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have the paint booth and lathe ready. Anything else?”  

She looked down at her oil-stained gloves and smiled faintly. “A shower, maybe. But I’ll survive.”  

He chuckled. “Fair enough. Come on—enough fixing ghosts for one day. You’ve earned dinner.”  

Nara hesitated, looking at the unfinished Rattlesnake.  

“Will it be alright if I leave it like this?”  

“It’s been dead ten years,” Gene said. “It can wait one more night.”  

She laughed quietly, set her tools down, and followed him toward the stairs.  

As they walked, the system whispered again in his mind:  

> **System:** “Emotional reading: host pleased, tension level reduced.  

>  Current risk factor: minimal. Recommend maintaining dinner proximity.”  

*Dinner proximity,* he thought dryly. *That’s what we’re calling survival now.*  

But when he glanced at her—hands streaked with grease, hair messy, eyes bright despite exhaustion—  

he couldn’t deny it.  

For the first time in a long while, Hancock Fortress felt almost… human.