Z' POV
I don't always work on the cars. Sometimes I just watch.
The shop tells you everything if you let it.
Engines speak before they fail. So do people. A missed step. A rushed movement. A mechanic cutting corners when he thinks no one important is looking.
The bay doors were wide open, sunlight spilling across the concrete floor. Dust floated through the air, catching in the noise and heat of the place. It was a good day-busy, loud, alive. Exactly how a shop should be.
I leaned against the rail above the floor, arms folded, eyes moving without effort. Every car that came in, every hand that touched it, passed through my awareness. Not because I didn't trust them.
Because this place was mine.
Some days I rolled up my sleeves and worked beside them, grease under my nails, knuckles
