He dove in himself—replacing panels, stripping out rot, getting the body and paint handled locally. But as the project deepened, so did the need for a builder who could help shape the car into something cohesive. A friend pointed him toward Shine Speedshop in Orange, California, and Andrew reached out.

Jimmy Shine has built a career on cars that look purposeful rather than precious. When Andrew walked him through the vision, Shine didn’t pitch trends or technology. He listened. Andrew wanted the car to feel old—mechanically strong, analog, textured. No LS swap. No digital gloss. Just a carbureted heartbeat and the right amount of attitude.

That shared philosophy became the backbone of the build. They chose a carbureted 427ci small-block from BluePrint Engines—not because it was the most exotic option but because it delivered the right kind of power in the right kind of way. Shine had his fabricator, Paulo Dosdoglirian, build the headers in-house, and the MagnaFlow 2.5-inch dual exhaust behind them was chosen for both tone and flow. “It sounds so good at a low idle … deep and nasty,” Shine says. The drivetrain and suspension choices followed the same logic: modern capability without erasing the car’s soul.

Topolski and Shine spent months talking through the details that define a car’s character—proportion, stance, wheel design, visual weight. They’d get off work, crack a beer, and spend hours on the phone dissecting ideas. The wheels became their obsession. They wanted something that captured the look and spirit of vintage magnesium race wheels, and they weren’t shy about leaning into that aesthetic. Shine had access to a real magnesium wheel from the McDonald Special—the famous 1961 Corvette road racer—and that became the benchmark. They also drew inspiration from the scooped, turbine-like wheels of the Lamborghini Espada. Working with Budnik, they blended those influences into a five-port window design, shot-peened and Cerakoted to mimic the porous, weathered look of old magnesium. “Everybody was tripping on the wheels,” Shine says. “Blown away to see they were Budnik.”

The stance was equally intentional. They could have stuffed massive tires under the mini-tubs, but they didn’t. They chose the size that preserved the car’s balance, not its bragging rights. Shine points out the detail most people miss: the front and rear track widths align perfectly at the outer edge of the tire. “It’s all these fine nuances that Andrew and I went over again and again,” he says. The result is a Camaro that sits with purpose—aggressive but never exaggerated.

Inside, the car stays true to its roots. Factory-style upholstery, simple instrumentation, a clean layout. It feels like a ’68 Camaro that’s been sharpened and not much more. That was the point. Andrew wanted the car to feel familiar every time he climbed in—like the memory of his dad’s Z28 but filtered through decades of experience and a builder who understood the assignment.

Shine describes the finished car as a modern echo of the street-fighter Camaros that prowled Orange County in the ’80s. Not Pro Street. Not Pro Touring. Something in-between. “It’s just a badass wild child,” he says. He even sent Andrew the Dead Milkmen’s “Bitchin’ Camaro” as a kind of unofficial theme song—a wink to the car’s attitude and its refusal to fit neatly into a category.

At Pomona, the Camaro didn’t need neon lighting or a mirror under the chassis. It stood out because of its exterior vibe. Because it was built with intention. Because two guys cared enough to sweat the details that separate a good car from a great one. Andrew set out to build the machine he dreamed about as a kid riding shotgun in his dad’s Z28, and with Shine’s guidance, he ended up with something even more personal—a street fighter with soul, shaped by countless late-night conversations about stance, proportion, and what makes a Camaro feel right. It’s a car born from collaboration, clarity, and conviction, ready for whatever Orange County roads can throw at it.