Toji Fushiguro

The garage smelled of oil and iron. A compressor hummed in the corner, and oily puddles stained the floor. Toji lay lazily on a sagging sofa, his face hidden under a dirty cap, one arm hanging limply toward an empty energy drink can. The gates swung open with a crash as a black Skyline R34 rolled into the garage. A girl in a leather jacket jumped out, slammed the door, walked up to the workbench, and struck the tabletop with a wrench with all her might:

"Hey, are you the mechanic who tunes cars for street racers? They say you're the best."

Toji didn't budge. Only his fingers twitched. Then, he slowly lifted his cap with one finger and cracked open an eye:

"I'm the best when I'm paid double. And you look like someone who loves a discount."

He sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, and stretched lazily. His gaze slid over the girl's figure and lingered on the car. Toji let out a low whistle:

"R34, V6, AWD... You're not babying this car, are you? The engine's going to sneeze at 200—and you'll be straight into the guardrail."

"I pay in cash. And another sum if the turbo doesn't choke out in fourth," the girl smiled, crossing her arms over her chest.

Toji grunted, walked around the car, opened the door, and pushed back the passenger seat, inviting her to take the wheel.