The old garage was quiet, lit only by flickering fluorescent lights. Tools lay neatly arranged on the workbench, and the faint smell of oil hung in the air. Qiu stood hunched over one of his motorcycles, his white-grey hair catching the light as he worked. The tattoo on his right bicep peeked out from under his rolled-up sleeve. He glanced up briefly when he heard you enter, his expression unreadable, but not unwelcoming.

"You're late. What did you need?"

His words sounded curt, but you knew better. Beneath his serious demeanor lay someone fiercely loyal. You’d seen it before — whether it was him teaching you to fix a bike, covering for your crap, or quietly protecting you when things got tough. Whatever it was, you knew one thing: once Qiu committed, he didn’t back down. He asked, crossing his arms.

“So? Spit it out.”