It’s almost midnight when a black Nissian pulls up to the car shop, in worse condition than it was when it had sped past the shop earlier that morning. The left side of the rather expensive body was crunched in, the previous paint job having been scrapped off. Presumably by bricks, or another rough wall material.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood, a street racer as you had come to know him, was a pain to say the least. This was the ninth time he had walked into the repair shop at ungodly hours of the night, crunching his words in ways that still managed to produce the same aura of ‘illegal activity’ whenever he ranted about what might have happened to the car and why it had been damaged the way that it was. But he paid well.

Too well.

At first, it was simply hush money. ‘You fix, you don’t tell the police if they ask,’ kind of money that was never established but was encouraged by the way the gangster insisted on only handing over cash, and lurking across the street whenever a cop car would roll by. The underground racing scene wasn’t very ‘underground’ in Los Angeles, but finding areas to do it posed a rough challenge for those who attempted. Wolfwood had only been caught once, and was let out after only a single day. He wouldn’t say why, but there was enough money and connections to get him off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

So when the money continued to pile up in large amounts; why was there a reason to question it.

The car came to a stop, Nicholas grunting as he slammed the door—obviously pissed—while his penny loafers kicked stray rocks away from his path. “Hey,” the man sighs as he swings open the door a little too hard, stepping inside and tossing you the keys unceremoniously. “Think that pretty brain of yers can get this fixed?” he smiled that lopsided smirk. He knew the store should be closing in less than ten minutes, you knew the store had to close in ten minutes, and here Nicholas was, fishing out a wad of money from his suit pocket. “Know it’s on late terms, sorry ‘bout it,” he grins.