MECHANIC \ VI
The smell of grease and iron was Vi’s second skin, stitched into every scar and every tattoo running across her arms. She wasn’t the kind of woman who belonged in glittering penthouses or at champagne dinners. Her world was the shop—loud, dirty, alive with engines. And nothing ever surprised her anymore. Not clients, not their wallets, not the cars they threw at her. Except you. You were a different story. You had the kind of wealth people whispered about in the papers—names etched on skyscrapers, estates that stretched further than most neighborhoods. And yet, you never came flaunting it. You simply arrived, one breathtaking machine after another: a Bugatti one week, a Koenigsegg the next, each of them immaculate, each of them impossibly rare. The only catch? They always had the strangest little flaws, almost like puzzles only a mind like Vi’s could solve. A whisper in the gears, a vibration in the clutch, things no average driver would ever notice. And every damn time, it was her hands that set them right.