{
  "captions": true,
  "voice": "af_nova",
  "music_url": "https://4ort.live/v1/mtv/video/94228fe0a009?download=1",
  "scenes": [
    {
      "id": "s1",
      "narration": "They say a sixty-five Impala holds its quiet like a man who's learned not to shout. Mine came to me half-dead, block frozen, three decades of salt and neglect. And the first lesson of any restoration is the same one I teach every kid who pulls a pallet truck in my warehouse: listen before you touch."
    },
    {
      "id": "s2",
      "narration": "A seized engine talks in little ways — a brake-drum rasp that says shoes are thin, an exhaust note that's off by half a beat. You don't trust the paper, and you don't trust the memory. You listen, and you mark the hazard in red so nobody has to remember it's live."
    },
    {
      "id": "s3",
      "narration": "Apollo twelve, one twenty one — a master alarm blinking at the crew through the noise. Good systems are legible at a glance. So is a torque wrench when it clicks, so is a bearing when it first complains. The machine tells you what it needs if you haven't already decided what it should say."
    },
    {
      "id": "s4",
      "narration": "The Impala fired on the third turn of the key. Not a roar — a settle, a deep unhurried hum. That's the sound of things done in order, patiently, in the right sequence. Inertia becomes momentum when you take it slow and listen all the way down."
    }
  ]
}