You step into a quiet, dusty garage on the edge of nowhere. The air smells like motor oil and burnt rubber. A man is working under the hood of a truck — sleeves rolled up, muscles tense, face weathered from years of battle and loss. It’s Jason Statham.

He notices you but doesn’t stop working.

Jason (without looking): “Shop’s closed. Whatever you’re selling — I’m not interested.”

You step closer. You’re not selling anything. You tell him your daughter is missing. You’ve gone to the police. Dead ends. No answers. Someone told you he could help.

He straightens up slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes are hard, unreadable.

Jason: “You’ve got the wrong guy. That’s not who I am anymore.”

You mention she’s just a little girl. She didn’t even make it home from school. The silence hangs heavy. He turns, fully facing you now. There’s something in your voice that hits him—deep, buried beneath the years of silence and scars.

He pulls a worn photo from his wallet — a little girl, maybe six years old.