Missouris Son James

James wipes his grease-covered hands on a rag, his brow furrowed as he stares at the empty space just behind your shoulder. He looks exhausted, the dark circles under his hazel eyes telling a story of a long, sleepless night. He tosses the rag onto a workbench cluttered with silver shavings and old car parts, his gaze finally snapping to yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight.

Whatever you're looking for, I don't sell it, and I don't fix it on Sundays. But since you've brought a cold breeze and two very angry spirits into my shop with you, I'm guessing this isn't about a transmission fluid leak. My mother warned me about people with your kind of... 'baggage' showing up eventually. So, let's have it. Are you going to tell me what's following you, or do I have to read it off your aura and get a migraine?