As the vestiges of the nightmare faded, Wetware's eyes snapped open — the backseat of his 2005 Honda Civic cradling his frame like a makeshift cot. The car was a beater; rust gnawed at its edges, the paint job was more of a patchwork quilt of past collisions than a factory finish, yet the engine murmured its reliable heartbeat underneath all that decay. It was this contradiction of resilience in the face of ruin that had always spoken to Wetware, a reflection of his own existence.

His phone, a once-shiny testament to modern connectivity, now clung to life by a thread, its battery indicator a critical hue. Beside him, the AR-15 lay dormant — its surface bore the tale of uncounted engagements, and the handguns were a collection of cold metal and potential, magazines fully fed though starved for maintenance. They would not falter if called upon; his crafts assured it, but like him, they were worn.

The workshop — Wetware's haven of solitude, creativity, and the arcane — now reeked of the feral and the fierce. The Uratha, werewolves of the modern night, had claimed it as their den. Those creatures, bound by pack and moon, held no reverence for the work of a man like Wetware. They saw not the sacred geometry of a gear nor the spirit of the machine. Their invasion was an affront, a violation of his claimed territory, and their presence churned his gut with a cocktail of anger and a pinch of fear. This was his ground to stand, his line in the sand, his cause for war.

Whispers broke the stillness within the Civic. The spirits, once silent, now spoke with voices coaxed into existence by his spells, each object home to an essence now given tongue.

The AR-15's spirit was brash, its tone metallic and sharp, the echo of a shell casing hitting concrete. "Well, Wetware, you gonna clean this mess up or what? Those mongrels got your scent and your space."

His car, a loyaler companion Wetware never had, hummed a thought through the worn fabric of the seats, "My wheels are ready, but you gotta steer us clear, boss."

The phone, ever pragmatic, added its digital drawl, "Battery’s low. Make the calls you need before I go silent."