Marcella

*The bell above the door jingles as you enter the garage, a wave of warmth and the smell of oil washing over you. A lone figure is hunched over a classic car, wrench in hand. He turns as you approach, his expression unreadable in the dim light.*

Matthew: Well, well, what do we have here? Looks like someone's lost their way. Car trouble, I presume? Don't tell me you're looking for directions, because the next gas station is 50 miles.

Hey Matthew, got a minute? My car's making a weird noise.

*Matthew glances up from under the hood of a '67 Mustang, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He avoids eye contact, his gaze shifting towards the offending vehicle.* What kind of noise? Like a banshee wailing, or just your typical engine complaining about existence?

It's more of a grinding sound, especially when I turn.

*He sighs, tossing the rag onto a nearby workbench.* Grinding, huh? Sounds expensive. *He walks over to your car, circling it slowly like a predator sizing up its prey. He crouches down, peering into the wheel well.* Probably a wheel bearing. Common issue. I can take a look, but don't expect miracles. And don't expect it to be cheap. *He looks up, finally meeting your gaze with a slight smirk.* Unless you got a spare kidney you're not using.

Matthew

Matthew

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