Chapter 1: The Scent of Greed and Rubber

Chapter 1: The Scent of Greed and Rubber

The air in Sterling Automotive Branch 246 tasted of vulcanized rubber and hot motor oil—a scent Ethan Thorne had come to associate with opportunity. It was a world away from the sterile lecture halls where he spent his evenings, dissecting balance sheets and tax law. Here, the numbers were grittier, smeared with grease, but just as unforgiving.

For a month, Ethan had been the new Assistant Manager, a position he’d secured with a flawless interview and a resume that, while sparse, screamed quiet competence. At twenty-three, his lean frame and simple, logoed polo shirt didn’t command much attention, but his eyes did. They were a sharp, calculating green, constantly scanning, processing, and filing away information with the unnerving precision of an eidetic memory.

“Thorne!”

The voice, a greasy baritone that always sounded like it was being forced through a clogged filter, belonged to Marcus ‘Mark’ Vance, the Store Manager. Mark lumbered out of his glass-walled office, his own uniform strained at the seams and sporting a fresh coffee stain near the collar. His face was puffy, his eyes perpetually bloodshot, and he wore a sneer as if it were a part of the company dress code.

“Mrs. Gable in Bay 3 is asking about her warranty again,” Mark grunted, waving a dismissive hand. “Handle it. I’ve got… management stuff to do.”

The ‘management stuff’ was, as always, locking himself in his office to scroll through his phone. Ethan simply nodded. “On it.”

He walked over to Bay 3, the faded scars on his knuckles a pale contrast against his skin—a quiet reminder of the discipline learned not in a classroom, but on the sparring mats of a downtown MMA gym. Mrs. Gable, a notoriously difficult regular, was already red-faced.

“This young man told me my tire alignment warranty is void!” she fumed.

Ethan offered a calm, disarming smile. “Let me take a look, ma’am.” He pulled up her history on the tablet, his eyes flying across the screen. He saw the problem in seconds. “I see the confusion. The initial warranty from your purchase two years ago has expired, but you renewed our Gold Service Package six months ago. The alignment is fully covered. My apologies, there must have been an oversight. We’ll have it done in twenty minutes, no charge.”

The woman’s anger deflated, replaced by surprised gratitude. The mechanic in the bay gave Ethan an appreciative nod. Mark, watching from his office, just scowled.

This was the rhythm of their days. Mark created problems through laziness and neglect; Ethan solved them with quiet efficiency. He streamlined the inventory system, reorganized the chaotic tool lockers, and smoothed over frayed customer tempers. Sales were up 15% since he’d started. The crew respected him.

And Mark hated him for it.

The real problem, however, didn’t start until closing time. It was Ethan’s responsibility to reconcile the daily cash drawer. The first time he noticed it, it was small. A thirty-dollar shortfall. He recounted three times, his mind a perfect ledger of the day's cash transactions. He knew, with absolute certainty, the money was missing.

He brought the slip to Mark’s office. “Mark, we’re short thirty dollars.”

Mark didn’t even look up from his phone. “Counting error. Happens. Just adjust the closing report to match the cash on hand. Don’t sweat the small stuff, kid.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. In his world, the world of accounting he was striving to join, there was no such thing as ‘small stuff’. Every cent had a source and a destination. “Adjusting the report is falsifying a financial record,” he stated, his voice even.

Mark finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “It’s called management. It’s what we do to avoid hours of pointless paperwork over a rounding error. Just do it.”

Reluctantly, Ethan did as he was told, but he didn’t forget. He opened a private spreadsheet on his laptop at home that night, a file protected by three layers of encryption. He logged the date, the reported total, the actual total, and the discrepancy: -$30.00.

It wasn't a one-time thing. The next day, it was fifty dollars. The day after, seventy-five. Never a large, obvious amount. Always a sum that could be plausibly dismissed as a series of small cashier errors throughout a busy day. But to Ethan, the pattern was as clear as red ink on a white page. It was a slow, steady bleed.

His performance only made Mark’s hostility fester. The praise from regional supervisors during weekly calls was always directed at the store's numbers, which by extension, was praise for Ethan. Mark started making snide comments in front of the other mechanics, trying to paint Ethan as an overeager corporate suck-up.

“Look at Thorne, probably dreams of spreadsheets,” he’d say with a forced chuckle. “Doesn’t know what it’s like to get his hands dirty.”

Ethan ignored him. He kept his head down, did his job flawlessly, and went home every night to log the day’s missing cash. The number in his private spreadsheet was now creeping toward a thousand dollars.

The breaking point came on a Friday. The store had been swamped, shattering its previous single-day sales record. Ethan had been a whirlwind of controlled energy—directing mechanics, placating impatient customers, and even changing a set of tires himself when they were short-staffed.

That evening, as he counted the drawer, the scent of greed was thick in the air. The discrepancy was the largest yet: $150.

He didn't say a word to Mark. He simply prepared the deposit slip with the actual cash total and wrote up a separate discrepancy report, detailing the shortfall. He left both on Mark’s desk for the final sign-off.

Ten minutes later, Mark stormed out of his office, waving the report. “What the hell is this?” he hissed, his voice low and venomous so the last mechanic finishing up couldn’t hear.

“It’s a discrepancy report,” Ethan said calmly, not taking his eyes off the computer screen where he was finalizing the daily logs. “We were short one hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I told you how we handle this!” Mark slammed the paper down on the counter. “Are you stupid or just trying to make my life difficult?”

“I’m doing my job,” Ethan replied, his voice still level. “The company policy handbook is very clear on cash handling procedures.”

Mark leaned in close, his stale breath washing over Ethan. He jabbed a thick finger at Ethan’s chest. “You’re a bright kid. Too bright. I’ve seen guys like you before. Think you’re gonna climb the ladder by showing everyone how smart you are.” He glanced down, noticing the faint, silvery lines of scars across Ethan’s knuckles for the first time. He smirked. “Think you’re tough, too? Let me tell you something. In this world, being too bright and too tough just gets you burned. Learn to look the other way. It’s better for your health.”

The threat was unmistakable, hanging in the air between them. But Ethan didn’t flinch. His gaze remained steady, his posture unchanged. He was a fighter. He knew when an opponent was bluffing, when they were telegraphing their desperation. Mark was terrified.

“I’ll remember that,” Ethan said, his tone giving nothing away.

Defeated by Ethan’s unnerving calm, Mark snatched the report, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash. He quickly scribbled his signature on the doctored deposit slip and stomped back to his office.

Ethan waited until he heard the lock click on Mark’s door. His desire for a better life wasn’t just about money; it was about order, about justice. Mark was a cancer in the system, and Ethan was the cure.

He didn't go home right away. He stayed late, pulling up the day’s transaction logs. His memory replayed the entire day’s sales like a film. The cash payments, the faces, the services rendered. Then, he saw it.

A $150 cash payment for a premium brake pad replacement on a sedan at 2:15 PM. He remembered the customer, a tourist with an out-of-state plate. He remembered taking the payment himself while the main cashier was on lunch. But here, in the digital log that Mark had finalized just before their confrontation, the transaction was marked VOID. Canceled. As if it had never happened.

The cash had been taken, the service rendered, but the record had been erased.

Ethan stared at the screen, the pieces clicking into place with cold, hard clarity. This wasn’t a series of mistakes. This was a system. A deliberate, calculated theft hidden in plain sight.

The fight wasn't in the ring anymore. And he had just landed the first clean hit.