Chapter 3 - The Interception
Before the card could make contact with the chip reader, a heavy, grease-stained hand clamped down on the carbon-copy work order, snatching it off the counter with a violent tear.
The camera whipped around, tracking a tall, broad-shouldered elderly mechanic who had just stepped through the heavy rubber noise-curtains separating the quiet waiting room from the roaring garage bays behind.
He was a man in his late sixties, his face weathered by decades of hard labor, lined with deep creases that held permanent traces of engine grime. He wore a faded blue canvas jumpsuit stained with oil, hydraulic fluid, and black grease. His name tag, frayed at the edges, read Frank.
Frank didn't look at Arthur. He raised the yellow paper to his face, squinting through heavy brows at the scribbled charges, his jaw working silently as a dark, dangerous storm brewed behind his pale grey eyes.
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"What the hell are you doing, Frank?" Arthur snapped, his face instantly flushing a dangerous shade of crimson. His hands gripped the edges of his grey polo as he stepped around the black tool chest. "Get back to bay four. This is customer service. You don't belong up here."
Frank slowly lowered the paper, turning his gaze toward the middle-aged manager. The silence in the waiting room became total. Every seated customer sat up straight, watching the confrontation unfold with breathless intensity.
