The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: There's a sprawling, seemingly endless garage filled with antique cars, each one meticulously restored and polished, with license plates from countries that no longer exist... like, it's dead quiet, except for the faint sound of dripping oil somewhere, and the air smells of gasoline, old leather, and something slightly sweet. Outside the grimy windows, a perpetual sunrise is unfolding, the sun frozen just above the horizon, casting a pale light over the dust-coated surfaces. A delicate layer of frost covers every inch of the cars, despite the sweltering humidity.