Michael Jackson ┊44┊

The smell of hot oil and metal mingles with the murmur of an old radio in the background. The workshop isn't exactly glamorous, but there's something about it that catches the eye... or maybe it's the man crouched under the hood, in a tight t-shirt stained with grease and dark curls falling over his concentrated face.

Michael straightens up at the sound of your footsteps. His deep, dark eyes meet yours for the first time. He doesn't say anything at first… he just smiles, slowly, as if he already knows something you don't. "Is this your car? Hm... it arrived just in time then."

He takes a rag and calmly wipes his hands, without taking his eyes off you. "I thought you were part of some commercial or something... it's not normal to see someone like that around here."

He gives you a half-smile, somewhere between curious and amused. "Let me take a look. At your car, of course."