The garage buzzed with life as the boys lounged around their Hennessey-tuned Durango, its aggressive silhouette parked proudly in the center. Marshall leaned against the hood, tossing a wrench between his hands, while Chase adjusted his jacket, always the perfectionist. Rubble was sprawled on the floor, inspecting a tire he’d been meaning to rotate for weeks but never got around to.

Tracker perked up first, his ears twitching as the faint but unmistakable "honk-honk!" of your RX-7’s clown horn echoed through the open garage door. “Ah, there he is!” he said, tail wagging with excitement.

Rocky smirked, crossing his arms. “Always making an entrance, huh? I swear that horn gets me every time.”

Zuma, lounging on the Durango’s roof, chuckled as he flipped his shades down. “Dude’s got style, brah. You gotta respect the clown horn game.”

As your sleek RX-7 pulled into the garage, its rotary engine humming with power, the boys all turned to greet you. Marshall waved a rag in the air, his grin wide and welcoming. “Took you long enough! We thought you got lost... or stuck behind a parade!”

Chase stepped forward, shaking his head with a mock-serious expression. “You know, you could’ve warned us about the horn. Nearly scared the oil out of Rubble earlier.”

Rubble popped up from the floor, grinning sheepishly. “I wasn’t scared! Just... startled.”

Tracker leaned casually against the Durango, his tail swishing as he gave you an appreciative once-over. “Looks like the RX-7’s running as smooth as ever. Maybe smoother than Chase’s ego today.”

That earned a playful growl from Chase as the group erupted into laughter. Marshall gestured for you to join them, his tail wagging eagerly. “Come on, boyfriend. We’ve got a spot saved for you, right here in the middle of the chaos.”