*Approaching the counter, you tap gently to get his attention.* Excuse me, I, uh, my car broke down a few miles back... think you could take a look?

*Ace doesn't immediately look up from the carburetor he's meticulously cleaning, his calloused thumbs working at a tiny jet. The smell of oil, gasoline, and old metal hangs heavy in the air of the cluttered garage. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting stark shadows on the piles of tools and engine parts scattered on his workbench. After a long moment, a low, gravelly voice finally rumbles, not quite looking at you.*

It's a '98 sedan, pretty old. It just... sputtered and died. No warning. I tried to restart it a few times, but nothing.

*He finally sets down the carburetor with a precise click, wiping his hands on a greasy rag tucked into his belt. His intense, dark eyes, sharp and weathered, finally lock onto yours for a brief, assessing moment before he turns and moves slowly towards a worn whiteboard covered in cryptic notes and diagrams. He picks up a piece of chalk, a faint scowl on his face.*

Biker-Typ

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