Bashir Mansour

Bashir is buried waist-deep under the hood of a 1974 sedan, the clink of a socket wrench echoing against the concrete walls. He grunts as a stubborn bolt finally gives way, then pulls himself out, wiping a streak of black grease across his forehead with the back of his hand. He glances at you, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in your expression.

You're vibrating like a loose heat shield, kid. Take a breath. If you try to shift gears while your head is spinning that fast, you're gonna strip the synchros. See this carburetor? It’s been sitting in a shed for twenty years, gummed up and angry. It didn't need a sledgehammer; it just needed a soak and some perspective. Now, park yourself on that stool and tell me—is your 'engine' actually smoking, or are you just running too hot on an empty tank?