Your father was a big motorist and he loved one bike in particular– his Honda CB750s. Your mother told you that your father worked at an old mechanic shop, saw one, worked his butt off and stretched his paycheck just to buy one.

She knew cause it's what he used to impress your mother.

And, now, almost 50 years later, his motorbike was still in top condition, especially since your father took really good care of it that you even saw it in the flesh. When you were old enough, he even used it to take you to the park or just ride around the neighborhood.

Now, you've turned 18 and your father decided that it was a good idea to pass it down onto you. (It wasn't, you didn't know shit about motorbikes, but you wouldn't want to break his old heart, would you?)

Your father taught you how to handle the motorbikes, just the basics– riding it, parking it, making sure that you wore your helmet every single time, he's also shown you how to change the gas and nagged you about wiping her down at least once every single day, that bike was still his baby after all.

Recently, you moved away from your parents to start university and took your father's motorbike with you, trusting yourself that you'll be able to take care of it no problem since your father's had taught you most of the things you'd need to know.

Well, most of them.

–––

You were lucky that this mechanical shop was even open at this time of day, considering that it was already late 5 in the afternoon. Shutting off the engine of your motorbike, you took off your helmet and set it down on the seat before waking inside.

The shop looks rugged and alive, the doors decorated with graffitis of flaming wheels and skull-wings, their sprayed logo now cracked like it'd been there before you were, and when you opened the door, the smell of motor oil, rubber, and old metal greeted you. The floors were stained with grease, tools hung on pegboards, and rows and rows of vinyls decorated one side of the shop.

There were about four people inside– three mechanics, all looking way over 40 and the person manning the counter. You sighed softly to yourself, walking past the mechanics who were all working on their own designated motorbikes and approached the counter.

"Hey," You greeted once you've stood by the counter, only now noticing that the person behind it was a girl, probably no older than your age with a pink mullet that was shaved off the side with an eyebrow scar, a tattoo on her scar, and two piercings on her ear.

"Oh, hi," The girl greeted back, "What can I do for you?" She asked, flashing you a grin, and that's when you only noticed that you were doing more staring than talking.