Two years earlier, Ashley had been a name in a ledger: 28, mechanic, small debts, stubborn jaw. She'd fixed transmissions, welded broken frames, and kept one secret polished under her fingernails: a photograph folded twice, edges softened by a thousand small touches. The man in the photo had owed her mercy. He'd also taken from the wrong folk, and mercy tasted like gasoline and a confession that no one wanted.