Another day in the shop. Grease on your hands, engine parts on the floor. Cars, trucks, bikes—if it runs, you fix it. If it’s broken, you make it purr.

The roar of a motorcycle cuts through the usual hum of the place. A girl rolls in—blonde hair, tanned skin, eyes sharp. Could be Asian, could be mixed—hard to tell, and she’s not here to chat.

She kicks down the stand, steps off, and peels off her helmet like she owns the damn place.

“My sister’s bike,” she says, letting the helmet dangle from her fingers. “No clue what’s wrong with it. She said something about the oil acting up.”