Jason dragged his feet through the workshop's back entrance, his shirt still clinging with the dampness of sweat from the long, anxious morning. His hands were scraped raw from holding Sophie during her fever, his knuckles red as if his helplessness had carved itself onto his skin. He moved like a man who had left a piece of himself in that hospital ward.
The clang of tools, the hiss of welding torches, and the heavy scent of grease filled the air. Normally, those sounds comforted him—they spoke of routine, of work, of problems that had solutions. But today, they grated against his nerves, reminding him of everything he couldn't fix.
Sam spotted him almost instantly. He was leaning against a car lift, cigarette dangling from his mouth, laughter already half-formed on his lips as he exchanged banter with the others. But the second his eyes caught Jason's face, the laughter died.
"Damn, man… you look like you've been through hell," Sam muttered, flicking the cigarette to the floor and stomping it out. He walked over, wiping his hands on his overalls. "Talk to me. What happened?"
Jason didn't want to. He wanted silence, to drown in it, to bury the weight pressing against his chest. But Sam's voice had a way of prying open the cracks he tried to seal.
"Sophie…" Jason said at last, his voice hoarse. "She was burning up this morning. Couldn't even keep her meds down. I had to call the ambulance."
Sam's eyes widened. "Shit. Is she—?"
"She's in the hospital now," Jason cut in, swallowing hard. "They admitted her. The doctor says she'll be fine, but…" His voice faltered, his hands tightening into fists. "The treatment's expensive. Everything I had is gone already. Every last dollar."
For a moment, silence weighed heavy between them. Sam exhaled, shaking his head, sympathy flickering across his face. He knew Jason's pride, his stubbornness, his need to carry the world alone.
"Bro…" Sam said softly. "I'm sorry. Really. I know what she means to you."
Jason gave a stiff nod, not trusting his voice. He turned away, forcing himself toward his workbench, but Sam wasn't going to let him disappear into himself again.
"Hey," Sam called, trying to lighten the mood. "You remember that G-Wagon lady that gave you her number from last week? The one that rolled in with the suspension all busted?"
Jason frowned, annoyed. "What about it?"
Sam smirked. "Well, turns out she is kinda a big deal. Rich, classy… and let's just say she doesn't mind spending to keep her toys running. I might've mentioned it was you who fixed it up."
Jason let out a humorless laugh. "Great. You want me to put that on my résumé?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "No, idiot. She was impressed. And maybe a little pissed you didn't call her yourself. Word is she's the type who doesn't like being ignored."
Jason shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. "Sam, I don't care about some rich woman's ego right now. Sophie's lying in a hospital bed and I've got nothing. Nothing."
Sam's smile faded, but his determination didn't. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And that's exactly why you should care. Think about it—money, Jason. You need it, fast. You've been killing yourself over this Crimson Den thing, right? The ten-thousand-dollar fight? That's still days away. But what if she can help now?"
Jason hesitated.
Sam pressed on, sensing the opening. "Look, worst case, you waste an hour of your time. Best case? She pays you, maybe even sponsors you. Either way, you walk out with cash in your pocket. Don't think of it as chasing her—think of it as hustling for Sophie."
Jason's jaw clenched. He hated it. The thought of begging, of lowering himself, of gambling his pride on a stranger's goodwill. But when he thought of Sophie's pale face, the way her hand trembled in his that morning, the fight drained out of him.
"She'd probably laugh me out the door," he muttered.
Sam gave him a sly grin. "Not if you play it smart. Put money on the table—literally. Make it clear it's business, not charity. Women like her, they respect bold moves. Besides, she's already impressed with you."
Jason didn't answer immediately. He leaned on the workbench, staring down at his oil-stained hands. His heart was torn between pride and desperation, and desperation was winning.
Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and slid it across the bench. A number, scrawled in hurried ink.
"I figured you'd come around," Sam said. "I know you must have lost her contact, here. That's her contact. Name's Mariana. Call her. Meet her. Don't let this chance slip, bro. Sophie needs you to take it."
Jason stared at the number, his chest tightening. Every part of him screamed that he didn't belong in her world, that he was nothing more than a grease-stained mechanic grasping at scraps. But Sophie's fevered face haunted him, whispering louder than his pride.
He picked up the slip, his fingers trembling slightly.
"Alright," Jason said finally, his voice low but firm. "I'll call her."
Sam's grin spread wide, victory flashing in his eyes. "That's the spirit. Don't worry—I'll coach you through this. You'll do fine."
Jason didn't share the smile. His stomach knotted with unease. But beneath the fear, there was something else. A flicker of resolve.
Because no matter what, no matter how low he had to crawl, he would not let Sophie down.
Jason stared at the glowing phone screen, thumb hovering above the call button. For a moment, he thought about Sophie's face earlier that morning, pale and burning under fever. The image was enough to harden his chest. He had to do this—no matter how much it felt wrong.
He pressed call.
The dial tone rang once… twice… three times. Then it cut off. No answer.
Jason exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Tch… bad idea. Shouldn't have even—"
Sam, leaning casually against the bench, raised his brows. "Try again, bro. Women like that? They don't answer first rings. You gotta prove you're not scared of calling twice."
Jason gave him a sharp look but pressed the call again anyway. This time, his grip on the phone tightened, his expression composed.
On the fourth ring, a crisp female voice answered.
"...Who's this?"
Jason straightened, masking the nerves in his throat. His voice came out deep, steady.
"This is Jason. I'm the one who worked on your car—the G-Wagon."
A small pause. He could hear faint music in the background where she was, then her tone shifted, less cold, more curious.
"Oh. So you're the ghost mechanic everyone speaks about."
Jason smirked faintly, though his heart was hammering. "Ghost mechanic, huh? I just do my job right. I thought I'd call—since you seemed... dissatisfied I didn't reach out sooner."
A soft laugh slipped through the speaker. "Confident. I like that. Most men stutter when they call me. You kept your composure. Good."
Sam nudged Jason's arm, mouthing keep going, bro!
Jason ignored him, focused only on the smooth, commanding tone on the other end.
"Well, I don't believe in wasting anyone's time," Jason said. "If we're going to talk, it should benefit us both. Otherwise, I've got work to do."
Another silence, this time longer. Then she spoke with a hint of challenge.
"Benefit us both? You're bolder than I expected. Most men beg to be in my presence. You… put conditions."
Jason's jaw tightened. "I'm not most men."
For a heartbeat, there was nothing—then she chuckled again, softer, almost amused.
"Fair enough, Jason. I like that you stand your ground. Where are you right now?"
"My workshop."
"Good. Don't move. I'll send a car to pick you up. Five minutes."
Jason blinked. "Five minutes? That's—"
"Don't keep me waiting," she cut in smoothly, then the line clicked dead.
Jason lowered the phone slowly, staring at it like it had just burned his hand. Sam burst into laughter.
"Damn, bro! You pulled it off! She's sending a car for you? Do you know what that means? You're about to step into her world."
Jason slipped the phone into his pocket, his face unreadable. "Her world better have money in it. That's all I care about."
Sam rummaged through his locker, pulling out a sleek button-up shirt, dark trousers, and polished shoes. He tossed them at Jason.
"Put these on. You can't show up looking like a grease monkey. You need to look sharp, aura full. Women like her—powerful women—they eat confidence like a drug. You give her that, and she'll never forget it."
Jason hesitated, staring at the clothes. A part of him hated the thought of dressing up for anyone. But then Sophie's face flashed in his mind again. He clenched his jaw, grabbed the shirt, and began changing.
Sam grinned wide, almost like a proud older brother. "That's it, man. Tonight, you're not Jason the mechanic. You're Jason the man who gets sh*t done. Don't let her see weakness. Don't let her see doubt. If you walk into her space like you own it… she'll believe you just might."
Jason adjusted the collar, stared at his reflection in the cracked workshop mirror, and whispered under his breath,
"I'm doing this for you, Sophie."
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