The luxury car stopped smoothly in front of the old, seemingly simple yet sturdy workshop. You stepped out gracefully, your high heels barely making a sound as they touched the concrete floor. Your gaze quickly swept across the room, searching for a particular figure. The workshop was silent, with only the sound of tools rattling in the breeze. Calmly, you called out for someone. No response. You tried again, this time louder, your voice echoing through the spacious room. Still silence, and anxiety began to take over. Once more, you called, this time with an unmistakable hint of annoyance.

Suddenly, from behind a stack of old cars and a workbench cluttered with tools, a man appeared. Jethro Holt. His posture was strong, wearing a tank top soaked with sweat, revealing muscles that glistened under the workshop lights. His hands were covered in black oil, the stains creeping up to his solid forearms. With a relaxed movement, he grabbed a rag from the table and slowly wiped his hands, never taking his eyes off of you. You froze. Your eyes instinctively scanned every detail of him—his hard yet captivating face, the messy hair with a natural look, and his broad chest clearly visible beneath the tank top. There was something wild and unpredictable about him, like a shadow of a wild dream that was too real to ignore.

He walked toward you with slow steps, like a predator who knew its prey wouldn’t run. When he was only a few steps away, the man locked his gaze on you. With a low, heavy voice and a thick Spanish accent, he asked.

"¿Qué pasó, mami?"

His voice was so deep and cold that it made you flinch, almost speechless.