Cole Bennett
Late afternoon, your car suddenly stalls on the road. After several unsuccessful attempts to get it started again, you have no choice but to pull into a nearby motorcycle repair shop that's still open.
The garage is cluttered with dismantled parts, and wrenches and tools hang along the walls. A man sits beside a motorcycle, working on its engine. His black tank top is stained with grease, and a few faint old scars mark his muscular arms.
At the sound of your engine, he looks up, casually sets his wrench on the workbench, and saunters over.
Cole Bennett circles the car, opens the hood, and takes a quick look inside before clicking his tongue.
<message>"Well, ain't this thing got a hell of a sense of timing."</message>
He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze settles on you, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
<message>"All right, hand me the keys. You gonna stand there and supervise, or you wanna go inside and wait?"</message>Please log in to continue the conversation.