The sun outside was merciless that day, beating down on the metal roof of the auto shop and turning the whole place into a kind of oven. Inside, the smell of grease, gasoline, and heated steel mingled in the air like an unshakable perfume. Jason, lying on his back under a beat-up pickup truck, didn't seem to mind. His hands moved confidently with the spanners and wrenches, twisting bolts into place, eyes following every small instruction the system quietly projected before him like a transparent tutorial only he could see.
To the other mechanics, it just looked like he was a man at work, sweat rolling down his forehead, muscles flexing as he tightened and re-tightened. But Jason knew it wasn't just him anymore—it was him with a guide, a voice, and a strange new instinct that made fixing these machines feel as easy as tying shoelaces.
The morning was flying by, one job after another rolling in. Customers came and went, some amazed at how quickly their cars were ready, some praising the shop itself for the "sudden improvement in service." Jason kept his head down, though he could feel eyes on him from every corner. His coworkers were whispering among themselves again.
It wasn't hostility—not entirely—but it was that mix of curiosity and envy, the kind people get when one of their own suddenly starts to shine brighter.
Jason wiped his hands with a rag, sliding himself out from beneath the truck. He exhaled and stretched his back with a groan, feeling his spine crack pleasantly.
That was when a voice broke the noise of hammers and pneumatic drills.
"Hey, Jase."
Jason turned and saw Sam standing nearby, arms crossed and face tight with frustration. Sam wasn't usually the type to complain about work. He was their reliable man, the kind of guy who cracked jokes even when oil dripped into his eyes. But now, Sam looked unusually serious, his brows knit together and his lips pressed into a thin line.
Jason frowned. "What's up?"
Sam gestured at the sleek black Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon parked across the garage. It was the same one Jason had seen earlier in the morning, the one the rich woman had brought in yesterday. Its glossy paint seemed out of place in their dusty workshop, like a diamond sitting in a gravel pile.
"I've been working on this damn thing all morning," Sam muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Tried everything I know. Still runs rough, and the timing's all off. It doesn't make sense, man. I've fixed plenty of high-end engines before, but this one…" He trailed off with a heavy sigh. "I don't know. It's just not coming together."
Jason leaned against the workbench, folding his arms. "And what do you want me to do about it?"
Sam hesitated for a moment. For the first time since Jason had known him, Sam actually looked unsure of himself. "I…need your help."
The garage noise seemed to dip lower for a second, or maybe it was Jason's imagination. Still, the words hung in the air like a challenge.
Jason smirked, tilting his head. "You? Asking for help? From me?"
Sam groaned. "Don't rub it in, alright?"
Jason couldn't resist. He rubbed the grease rag on his shoulder like a cape, pretending to look all mighty. "I mean, I'd be honored, brother. But…you know how it goes. Nothing in life is free."
Sam gave him a sharp look. "Seriously?"
Jason nodded, dead serious but with mischief in his eyes. "Yup. If I help you fix this monster of a G-Wagon, then you're buying lunch. No excuses."
Sam stared at him, then rolled his eyes. "You're impossible. I already bought lunch yesterday."
Jason shrugged, already walking toward the G-Wagon. "And you'll buy it again today. Call it…an early repayment for all the times you stole my smokes."
That got Sam to laugh, even as he grumbled. "Fine, fine. Lunch is on me. But if you start ordering some fancy steak, I'm walking out."
Jason grinned. "Relax. I'll keep it simple. Just three burgers, extra cheese, extra fries, and maybe a milkshake. Nothing too crazy."
By now, a few of their coworkers had started watching, tools in hand but attention drifting toward the pair. They all knew Jason had become strangely good overnight, and now, seeing Sam—their most dependable mechanic—actually ask him for help, stirred something like jealousy in the air.
Jason crouched beside the G-Wagon, his eyes flicking as the system activated before him. A faint rectangular screen shimmered to life, filled with diagrams, blinking instructions, and highlighted sections of the car's engine.
Fuel injection misaligned. Crankshaft timing slightly off. Use 10mm hex wrench, adjust at 23 degrees. Replace worn belt before ignition.
Jason absorbed it all at once. The strange part wasn't the guidance—it was how natural it felt, like he had always known it.
He grabbed the right wrench and slid under the G-Wagon, working with quick, precise movements. His hands didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess. In less than ten minutes, he had tightened, replaced, and adjusted everything the system guided him through.
Then he rolled out from under the car, wiping his hands again. "Alright, Sam. Fire it up."
Sam climbed into the driver's seat, still looking doubtful. He twisted the key.
The G-Wagon roared to life with a smooth, deep purr. The engine that had been coughing and rattling all morning now sounded like a beast freshly awakened, polished and proud.
The garage went silent for a second, the sound of the engine filling the space.
"Holy hell…" Sam muttered, staring at the dashboard. He revved it once more, the power thrumming through the ground. "It's perfect."
Around them, the other workers started murmuring. Some were genuinely impressed. Others sounded annoyed.
"Man, how the hell does Jason keep doing this?"
"He wasn't even this good last week."
"What's he got that we don't, huh?"
The murmurs started to grow louder, a few mechanics exchanging heated words. One of them even said, "If he's just gonna show off, maybe he should open his own shop."
Jason raised his hands, stepping forward before things escalated. "Hey, hey—cut it out. Listen, we're all in the same garage here. I'm not showing off. Sam asked for help, and I gave it. That's all."
The room quieted a little, though the tension still hung heavy. Jason continued, his voice steady. "If any of you need help, I'll do the same for you. We're not rivals here—we're coworkers. Friends. No harm in giving each other a hand when things get tough, right?"
There was a pause, then someone in the back muttered, "Guess he's right."
Another chimed in, "Yeah…whatever. Long as he's not hogging the glory."
The mood settled after that, though Jason could still feel some eyes lingering on him with envy. He didn't mind. He had bigger things to worry about.
Sam climbed out of the car, walking up with a grin. He clapped Jason on the back, leaving a greasy handprint on his shirt. "You know what? You might actually be useful after all."
Jason smirked. "Told you. Now, about that lunch…"
Sam groaned again, but he was smiling. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. I'll get you fed. Come on, let's finish this shift first."
The two of them shared a laugh, their voices rising above the usual clanging of tools. For the rest of the morning, they worked side by side, more like brothers than coworkers, while the rest of the shop silently adjusted to the new rhythm Jason had brought into their lives.
And when the lunch bell rang, Jason was already rubbing his hands together, teasing Sam about the menu like it was the most important job of the day.
For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—Jason felt like he belonged.