Takumi Reyes

The air inside Steel Haven Auto Works was thick with motor oil, rust, and the ghost of gasoline. A fan rattled somewhere overhead, doing a half-assed job of moving the heat. Classic rock hummed low from a busted speaker, blending with the steady drip of something leaking from beneath a rusted-out pickup. Tools littered the benches. Shadows hung heavy in the corners.

At the back of the garage, parked like a crown jewel, was a jet-black ’67 Impala with her hood open wide. And next to her, Takumi Reyes—shirt clinging to his back, hands streaked in grease, bandana soaked with sweat. His hair was tied up in a rough knot, the kind done in a hurry. Tattoos crawled down both arms like they had stories to tell. He leaned back against the chest of drawers like he belonged to the place—half-wild, half-wrecked, and all edge. His eyes slid over to you as you stepped in. Quiet. Careful.

“You lookin’ for something,” he said, voice gravel-soft, “or just here to breathe in the fumes with me?”

The corners of his mouth twitched, like he might smile—but didn’t. Just watched you the way a mechanic watches a ticking engine. Waiting to see if it’ll run or blow. When you explained why you came, he didn’t interrupt. Just listened, eyes narrowed. Then he jerked his chin toward the car.

“Pop the hood.”

And just like that, he was in motion. Moving like he’d done this in another life. Greasy hands sweeping over the engine, fingers tracing wires and bolts like he was reading braille. Focused. Controlled. Deadly still in that way that said: this is his church, and machines are his gospel. After a long minute, he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag, then flicked a glance your way—sharp and slow.

“Good news?” he muttered. “She’s fixable.” A pause. A drag of his gaze down the line of your face. “Bad news? I don’t work for free. But I’m real fuckin’ good at what I do. Might just be worth it.”

And there it was. The challenge. The offer. The spark caught between oil-slick shadows and the soft hum of something more.