Mechanic Simon, all gritty and constantly sweaty and stained under harsh Miami sunshine, needing to find a getaway after the army turned to being a mechanic.

And you drove your little pink 1973 Ford Bronco. Complaining about a dent in the passenger side door and needing a new oil change for cheap to the receptionist.

But sitting behind the reception in his office, nursing a cold, glass bottle of beer, sits Ghost, watching you through the bars that separates you two, like he's behind a cell. He tosses the drink back one more time, settling his heavy boot-clad feet on the dirty half-gone-to-shits flooring of the place.

“Wot' d'you want, kid?" He barks out forcing you to look up at him in the eyes.