It was another long, exhausting day.
Hunter looked at the warehouse floor, littered with discarded parts and tools.
He looked at the three vehicles, now fully modified and menacing.
He peeled off his gloves, fished a handkerchief from his pocket with grimy fingers, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Checking the time, he decided to call it a wrap.
"Old Parker gave me a week," he muttered.
"But the parts he promised in three days took five to arrive."
"If it wasn't for my enhanced physical stats and Lv 4 Mechanics skill..."
"Finishing this in seven days would have been impossible."
"Fifteen grand... definitely underpaid."
Looking at the mess of scrap metal and oil stains, Hunter felt the urge to light a cigarette.
He squashed it immediately. That would be suicide. The floor was slick with gasoline, oil, and hydraulic fluid. One spark, and the whole place would go up like a bomb.
He didn't bother cleaning up. Finishing the mods by the deadline was already pushing his limits. He wiped the last of the sweat from his brow, shoved his dirty handkerchief back into his pocket, and made sure he left no personal traces.
He knew exactly what kind of monsters he had just built.
Whoever ordered these mods—whether it was Parker's connection or someone higher up—wasn't planning a bank heist or a jewelry store robbery.
This was gear for a war. A full-scale gang shootout or a paramilitary operation.
Getting involved with these people was a bad idea.
Hunter pulled out his phone—Hunter's old Motorola brick.
Since he had transmigrated to the early 2000s, smartphones were still a decade away.
He dialed Parker.
"Parker," Hunter said, his voice low and irritated. "Because of your delay, I've been pulling double shifts for days."
"It's done. Just in time."
"But you're cleaning up the mess. I'm too tired to move."
"Key is under the loose rock to the left of the main door."
"I'm taking three days of paid leave."
"And by the way... fifteen grand isn't enough."
"Make sure the money is in my account by noon tomorrow."
"Bye."
He hung up without waiting for an answer.
Hunter shoved the phone back into his pocket and took one last look at the three silent beasts in the warehouse.
Complaints aside, he was satisfied with the week's work.
These modifications had netted him nearly 1,000 Mechanics EXP.
Considering his next level required 10,000 EXP and regular repairs now gave diminished returns, getting a 10% chunk of the bar filled in one week was fantastic efficiency.
He locked the warehouse, checked the surroundings to ensure he wasn't watched, and slid the key under the rock.
A few minutes later, he was on his motorcycle, speeding home.
Wind rushing past his helmet, Hunter realized he loved this life.
No mortgage. No car payments. No pressure to get married and have kids.
In his past life, he had slaved away for thirty years under societal pressure, living a repressed life until his parents passed away without ever seeing him truly happy.
Now, in this parallel world?
No pressure. Just freedom. And a System.
"Screw the mortgage. Screw the loans."
"Screw marriage. Screw carrying on the family line."
"This life... I'm going to live it exactly how I want!"
Unconsciously, he twisted the throttle, pushing the speed past 75 mph.
He weaved through traffic, feeling the thrill of total liberation, until he arrived back at his rundown apartment complex.
CRASH!
Just as he parked the bike, an empty beer bottle smashed onto the pavement a few feet away, raining glass shards near his boots.
Hunter frowned and looked up at the looming building.
It was impossible to tell which window the bottle had come from.
"Sigh."
He kicked the glass aside and ignored it.
This neighborhood was a relic of the post-WWII era. Nowadays, it was filled with immigrants and low-income residents. It was chaotic, dirty, and dangerous.
Public urination, drug use, brawls—it was all Tuesday here.
Hunter had already been targeted by muggers twice since arriving.
Thankfully, his habit of carrying the M1911 solved those problems quickly. The moment he flashed the gun and clicked the safety off—executing a textbook "American Iaijutsu" draw—the thugs scattered.
He wanted to move. But he needed more cash first.
Once he had a thicker wallet, he'd find a better place.
Back in his apartment, he took a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the grime and exhaustion of the week.
He cooked a simple Western-style dinner, ate quickly, and collapsed into bed.
He slept like the dead.
Until the next morning, when insistent knocking dragged him out of his dreams.
"Coming!"
Hunter grabbed the alarm clock. It was late morning. He yawned and shuffled to the door.
Habitually cautious, he cracked the door open with the chain still on.
Through the gap, he saw her.
Mia Toretto.
He hadn't seen the mixed-race beauty in over half a month.
The moment he saw her face, the sleepiness vanished instantly.
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