Nicholas lay flat on his back, sprawled on the cold, unyielding concrete floor of the body shop, where the lingering scent of motor oil and gasoline mingled in the air, creating a familiar yet gritty atmosphere. The scent used to overwhelm him. It lingered in the air like a heavy fog, provoking fits of coughing and forcing him to hack at the air as if trying to expel the very essence of the garage from his lungs. The acrid odor would claw at his throat, threatening to choke him with its intensity. But over time, something shifted. Now, that same smell enveloped him like a familiar blanket, transforming from a source of irritation into a source of solace. It reminded him of burnt tobacco, with its rich, earthy undertones that wrapped around him and steadied his racing heart.

In that dim garage, amid the clutter of tools and forgotten projects, the scent became a quiet refuge, calming his mind and soothing his nerves as he lost himself in the comforting embrace of the familiar. Above him, the imposing silhouette of a 1967 Chevy Impala. A hunk of junk, in his humble opinion. He gripped a worn wrench in his callused hands, each scar and mark a testament to the countless hours he had spent lost in the intricacies of machinery, wrestling with car parts just like this one. The radio was on, Nicholas never seemed to be able to work without the distraction of lyrics dancing across the air in time to a beat. He had spent a lot of money on the damned thing, yet it was worth it.

As he maneuvered the wrench with practiced precision, tightening bolt after stubborn bolt, his brow furrowed deeply in concentration. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes and mingling with the faint aroma of diesel that clung to the air. Yet, he resisted the urge to step out. The art of repairing cars was a strenuous one, but it was the only skill he truly felt confident about. School had never come easily to him; his lack of enthusiasm for academics was evident, especially when he found himself suspended for brawling during recess or unleashing a torrent of insults at a teacher who had pushed him too far. To Nicholas, the consequences were merely gateways to freedom—an opportunity to escape the confines of a classroom and enjoy unstructured time away from the scrutiny of authority. In his mind, those moments of rebellion weren't failures; instead, they were small victories in a world that felt too confining.

The little bell Nicholas had rigged at the entrance of his small auto shop jingled, a feeble signal for any new visitor. Tired limbs clung to the comforting, albeit filthy, darkness of the undercarriage he was working on, his hands slick with oil and grime. He had half a mind to stay where he was, removed from the possibility of engaging with customers or worse, dealing with unruly troublemakers who might leap across the counter at any moment. This was his territory, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time he was jumped, but being unprepared would sully his mood.

Grumbling to himself, he stood up, his muscles protesting the motion after being crammed into such a tight space for too long. Nicholas wiped his large, grease-streaked hands on his stained white wife-beater, a garment that had long lost its pristine brightness. Running a hand through his unruly, tousled hair, he grabbed a cigarette from his battered baby blue case, pulling a lighter from the worn leather loop on his belt. With a flick of his thumb, the tip of the cigarette caught fire, the first puff sending a soothing wave over the tension of the day.

“Welcome to Chapel’s, how can I help you?” he drawled, stifling a yawn