Chapter 6: End of Shift Earnings

  Carson lost himself in the rhythm of the bays. The Civic hatchback was next—straightforward, no surprises. Then came a silver Integra Type R that needed extra love on the carbon-fiber hood to avoid micro-scratches. After that, a lowered Golf R with a filthy underbody from last night’s backroad runs; Jax had to show him the high-pressure wand settings again, so he didn’t blast off any heat shields—smiling while mana-gum crackled with a cool fog under his breath. The fourth and final car rolled in just before closing: a beat-up but lovingly kept Nissan 240SX drift build, chalk-white with battle scars it wore with pride—like blue ribbons on display—and a fresh set of Falken RT660s still smelling of new rubber.

  He waxed, polished, vacuumed, degreased, and detailed until every surface reflected the shop’s overhead LEDs like mirrors. His arms felt like lead, shoulders screaming, stamina buff from breakfast had long worn off and he powered through on sheer stubbornness. No mistakes. No shortcuts. Each car left cleaner than it arrived.

  By the time the last one dropped off the lift, the sky outside had turned the bruised purple of early evening—he liked the cozy color. Engines echoed from the elevated highways above, night meets warming up somewhere in the distance.

  Rico appeared at the bay door, arms crossed, watching Carson wipe down the final rim on the 240SX. The shop was quiet now—just the hum of the mana-powered air compressor winding down and the occasional clink of tools being put away.

  “Four cars,” Rico said, voice low but approving. “No complaints from any of the owners. Two of ’em even asked if you were permanent.”

  Carson straightened, wiping his hands on his already-filthy rag. “Just trying to keep busy.”

  Rico grunted. “You’re more than busy. You’re reliable kid. That’s rare down here.” He patted his chest like he was searching for a wallet, reached into the back pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a small stack of bills. “Here it is. Base pay’s going up. Assuming you’re gonna stick around?” Rico looked up from counting—Carson looked up from the bills as well and nodded. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but with $3700 haunting him like a bad track time—he needed to shave it. “Sixty a day, …starting tomorrow. However, from today forward, you get five bucks per car you detail,” Rico counted out twenty more dollars. “That’s twenty extra for today’s four, plus your split of tips.”

  Carson took the cash: days pay, bonus pay for each car, driver tips—split and slipped. He tried to count quickly in his head, then felt the System: looking at the neon blue number in the right periphery: the blue $170.00 absorber the +$120.00 with a pulse: $290 Then the system bloomed with a small notification. He read the updated HUD:

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  [Reputation with Rico’s Garage: +25 (Acquaintance – Trusted Helper)]

  [New Passive: Detail Bonus – +$5 per completed vehicle detail job]

  Cool, extra cash per car—felt like the System was on his side today.

  Rico clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to make Carson stagger a half-step. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still the new guy. But keep this up, and maybe we’ll talk about letting you look at the diagnostic tablet. Or even turn a wrench instead of just a rag.”

  Carson managed a tired grin. “I’ll take it.”

  Rico nodded. “Alright, well go on, get out of here before I change my mind and make you sweep the bays, …twice.” He winked—a maternal glint sparkle in his eye. The silver in his fade softer than yesterday.

  Carson didn’t argue—played the part and hurried along. He grabbed his jacket (a thin windbreaker someone had left in the lost-and-found that now officially belonged to him—boy was born from the lost-and-found), pocketed the cash safely, and stepped into the cooling night air.

  Hunger hit like a downshift. The stamina buff was long gone, and four cars’ worth of physical labor had burned through whatever toast and coffee had fueled him that morning. His feet carried him back toward Mama Lin’s Quick Bites almost on autopilot.

  The cart was still open, lanterns strung along the awning glowing warm orange against the neon backdrop of Lowtown. Mama Lin was flipping something on the griddle—noodles sizzling, garlic and chili hitting the air like a nitrous shot.

  She spotted him before he reached the counter. “Back already? You smell like you wrestled a turbo all day.”

  “Close enough,” Carson said, leaning on the flip-down ledge. “Four cars. Smells better than it feels.”

  She laughed, short and sharp. “That’s the life. What’ll it be? Same as breakfast, or you ready to level up?”

  He glanced down at the board—still propped against the wheel well. The spicy noodle bowl was calling—$6, and something called Iced Mana-Dew—$2.

  “Spicy noodles,” he decided. “And Iced Mana-Dew. Keep it simple.”

  Mama Lin nodded, already ladling. “Good choice. You’ll need the heat in your veins for what’s coming. Word’s spreading you’re the new detail kid at Rico’s. Means eyes on you soon. Racers talk. They notice people who show up and don’t flake.”

  She slid the steaming bowl over, chopsticks balanced on top, plus a tall cup of Iced Mana-Dew—a bright green drink that tasted like it should have been orange—she even slammed a straw in the glass—splashing dew over the rim. “Eight bucks total. But call it six. Loyalty discount for repeat customers.”

  “I’m a repeat customer.” An old man chirped—looking for a discount.

  “Eat your eggs, Paul.” She didn’t even give the man a glance—he did though return to his eggs.

  Carson chuckled. Fished out some cash. And paid with one of the crisp twenties from his envelope, leaving her a dollar tip.

  The system hummed with an update. A red -$7 dropped from the electric blue $290 with a pulse. New balance reading: $283.00—yeah, he liked the auto math—gamified right? He carried the bowl to the rickety plastic table beside the cart—leaving Paul with his eggs—and sat, letting the steam warm his face.

  He slurped a noodle—spicy enough to make his eyes water, but the burn felt good. Alive.

  Somewhere overhead—beyond, a race launch echoed: engines screaming, tires biting pavement, the crowd’s roar faint but unmistakable.

  Carson ate slowly, watching the lights streak past on the elevated lanes. The sun was going down. That didn’t mean the city was. The redlines were coming up, and gauge needles were getting jumpy.