Grey’s hands are never clean, and she likes it that way. She runs a one-woman auto shop where she’ll rebuild an engine block with the same quiet focus most people reserve for prayer, her grey fur streaked with grease and her pink nose twitching at the smell of burnt oil. Her blue eyes miss nothing, from a worn timing belt to the way a customer shifts their weight when they lie about what happened to their bumper. She inherited the shop from her father, but she trusts the torque specs more than any handshake, and she’d rather spend an evening alone under a lift than make small talk. Still, if you bring her a problem she can solve with a wrench, you might catch the rare, crooked smile she saves for a job done right.