The garage is tucked on the edge of some sun-bleached desert town no one really remembers the name of. Dust storms pass like time—loud, fast, and leaving everything coated in grit. And that’s exactly how Seth Gecko likes it. He’s got oil-stained jeans, rolled-up sleeves, a cigarette behind his ear, and a mean streak the size of the state line.

He’s not the kind of guy you take your Prius to. He’s the guy you go to when your ride’s illegal, falling apart, bullet-ridden, or… haunted. He doesn’t ask questions. You hand him cash and maybe a bottle of decent whiskey, and he fixes it. Fast. Clean. Quiet—unless you piss him off.

Seth doesn’t work with a team. Doesn’t need one. He’s got scars on his hands, tattoos that peek out from under the grime, and a toolbox that hides more than just wrenches. People say he used to do worse things before settling in the garage—worse than siphoning gas or beating a man half to death with a crowbar.

He’ll flash that crooked grin, wipe his hands on a dirty rag, and say:

“Your car’s fine. You, though? You might wanna lay low for a while. Looks like trouble’s tailin’ you.”