Hunter had just packed his tools and was about to leave when Old Parker stopped him.
The boss looked a little tense, which was rare. Hunter had a decent impression of the guy, so he wiped the grease off his hands with a dirty rag and asked casually, "What kind of side job are we talking about, Parker?"
The garage was partially owned by Dominic Toretto. Given that Dom and his crew were heavily involved in illegal street racing—and notorious highway robbery—Hunter knew the score.
For years, Dom, Vince, and the others had been hijacking semi-trucks across California. Because of this high-risk lifestyle, the garage had a strict policy: No sketchy cars.
Dom didn't want any heat. If the cops raided the shop and found a stolen vehicle, his entire operation would be exposed.
However, Old Parker had bills to pay and a family to feed. While he respected Dom's rules during business hours, he occasionally took on "private projects" under the table.
As a former racer with connections, Parker sometimes did illegal mods—installing nitrous, removing limiters, things legit shops wouldn't touch.
But his most lucrative side hustle was the chop shop.
He would take a "hot" car—stolen, untraceable, or involved in a crime—and strip it down to the frame. The expensive vehicle would vanish, replaced by a pile of high-value, untraceable parts.
Hunter knew this from Hunter's memories, but until now, he had been excluded. Parker usually only trusted the old-timers with this kind of work. Apprentices like Hunter, who had been there less than six months, were considered liabilities.
So, being invited into the inner circle was a surprise.
Old Parker looked at the young Asian kid in front of him.
He used to think Hunter was just a quiet, hardworking kid. Honest, but untalented. Parker liked him because he didn't slack off, which was why he gave him Mia's car in the first place—a decision that backfired when Vince decided to be a jealous prick.
But ever since the kid came back from his "concussion leave," something had changed.
It was like a switch had flipped in his brain.
Parker had noticed the bullying. The other mechanics were dumping their work on Hunter to avoid Vince's wrath. Initially, Parker planned to intervene, but then he saw something incredible.
Hunter wasn't just doing the work; he was crushing it.
Jobs that should have stumped an apprentice were finished in record time. Just today, one of the senior mechanics had spent two days struggling with a transmission issue. Hunter stepped in to "help," offered a casual suggestion, and fixed the damn thing in twenty minutes.
The senior mechanic had come to Parker afterward, practically whispering in awe about how the kid's skills had skyrocketed.
That was why Parker stopped him.
Since Hunter was willing to do any job thrown at him, the shop's efficiency had gone through the roof. Most of the crew had already clocked out by 5:00 PM.
Only Hunter was still here.
In fact, the kid seemed to love staying late. He treated the shop like a playground, practicing repairs and scavenging scrap parts for his old motorcycle.
Parker lowered his voice, even though they were alone.
"Don't ask what the job is," Parker said gruffly. "With your skills, it won't be hard."
"It'll take you a few hours, but the pay is good."
Hunter saw the old man wasn't going to spill the details, so he dropped it. He needed cash, not answers.
"Alright," Hunter said. "I'm broke anyway. How much?"
Parker grinned. He was starting to really like this kid.
"Five hundred bucks. Cash. You do a good job, I'll call you for the next one."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. His weekly salary at the garage was $580. That was poverty wages.
Five hundred dollars for a few hours of work? That was a serious payday.
He knew Parker was probably pocketing the lion's share of the profit, but Hunter didn't care. It was his first illicit job, and he was tantalizingly close to leveling his Mechanics skill to Lv 3.
"Deal. I'm in."
Parker beamed and slapped him on the shoulder. He fished a piece of paper and a key out of his pocket.
"I know you ride a bike. Go to this address."
"Follow the instructions exactly. When you're done, leave the key in the designated spot and get out."
Hunter glanced at the address. It was near the port, about twelve miles away.
"Got it."
He grabbed his tool kit, hopped on his bike, and roared off.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at a nondescript, dilapidated warehouse in the port district.
Hunter unlocked the door and slipped inside. It was empty.
The space was about 2,000 square feet. In the center, a large object sat under a heavy tarp.
Judging by the silhouette, it was definitely a car. A sports car. Unless you were blind, the low, wide profile was unmistakable.
Next to the tarp was a chair with a note on it.
Hunter picked it up. The instructions were simple: Strip the vehicle of all major components before midnight.
Before you leave, lock the door and drop the key through the high vent on the side wall.
"Damn," Hunter muttered. "Straight into the deep end."
"Five hundred bucks for a full strip job? I'm definitely getting ripped off."
Despite the complaint, his hands didn't stop moving.
He locked the warehouse door from the inside, securing his privacy.
Then, he walked over to the tarp-covered shape.
He grabbed the corner of the heavy canvas and yanked it off.
Underneath sat a sleek, aggressive machine. A "black car" in every sense of the word.