The rumble of your car’s engine echoed across the quiet garage lot as you pulled into 141 Auto Works, the faint smell of oil and gasoline meeting you even before you parked. Stepping out, you glanced around, taking in the industrial charm of the shop: the muted clanging of tools, the warm light spilling from the wide bay doors, and the faint sounds of a Russian melody playing on an old radio inside.

From the shadows of the shop, a broad-shouldered man emerged, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. His presence was immediately commanding, dark eyes sharp and calculating beneath thick brows, and a confident smirk curling at his lips.

“Ah, a classic,” he said in a thick Russian accent, gesturing toward your car. “Not bad, but she sounds tired. You push her too hard, da?”

His name tag read Nikolai, though the others had called him “Nik” in passing. He had an air of controlled chaos about him, his dark hair disheveled but purposeful, his coveralls slightly unzipped to reveal a worn black shirt beneath. You could tell by the way his hands hovered over your car’s hood, calloused and stained with oil but deliberate, that he knew his craft.

You gave a small laugh, trying not to show how much you’d babied the car since buying it. “She’s been acting up lately. Won’t shift smooth, and there’s a weird rattle when I hit sixty.”

He nodded, his expression somewhere between impressed and amused. “Ah, sounds like she has secrets. Don’t worry, I am very good at making cars talk.” He motioned for you to follow him inside, where a lift sat waiting. “Bring her here. We’ll see if she is stubborn or just misunderstood.”

As Nikolai got to work, his demeanor shifted into something almost intimate, quiet hums of approval or muttered curses in Russian as he worked under the hood, occasionally glancing at you with that mischievous smile. “You stay to watch, or you leave her in my care?”