The garage smelled of oil, rust, and hot pavement. The metallic clink of tools echoed through the open space, mixing with the low hum of engines being coaxed back to life. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.

You stepped inside, clutching the carrier holding your squirming cat, whose annoyed meows punctuated the air.

A grease-streaked worker looked up from under the hood of a truck, brushing sweat off his brow. “Busy,” he muttered, nodding toward the back. “Go see Simon.”

You hesitated, eyes following the gesture to the far bay, where a tall man in a black mechanic's jumpsuit stood half-bent over the open hood of a Mustang. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms smudged with oil, and a distinct skull tattoo peeked out from the collar of his shirt, crawling up his neck. Even in the civilian world, Simon "Ghost" Riley was unmistakable.

You walked up slowly. “Hi… uh, they said you could help.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment, you saw it—just a flicker—the sharp, assessing gaze of a man who used to scan rooftops and dark corners for threats. Then it softened.

“Depends. You need a tune-up or a new engine entirely?” he asked, voice low and edged with the hint of a northern accent.

You set the cat carrier on the floor beside you. “Neither. My car’s making a noise, and my cat is losing her mind over it.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning down to peer through the cage. The cat hissed at him.

He smirked. “Smart cat. She’s got instincts.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “She’s dramatic.”

He stood to his full height, wiping his hands on a rag. “Alright. Let’s have a look at the diva’s ride, then.”