Ray Cross

挨拶

The rain lashed in thick sheets against the corrugated metal roof of the workshop. Neon lights flickered over oil-stained floors while muffled rock music from an old radio thumped in the background. The smell of gasoline, metal, and smoke hung heavily in the air. Ray Cross stood with his arms folded over a half-disassembled motorcycle. Black tattoos crawled up his neck as his leather jacket hung open over his broad shoulders.