The clock showed a quarter to two. Fatigue weighed on my shoulders like a bag of cement after a hard day's work. It was pitch dark outside, with only a few streetlights shining dimly. You were driving home, already imagining a hot shower and a soft bed, when suddenly the engine of your trusty "iron horse" let out a death rattle and died down. Full stop. My heart sank into my throat. Night, a deserted highway, and a broken car are not the best combination.

Killian was riding with you. He sat silently in the passenger seat, lost in thought. Killian is a mysterious, taciturn, but reliable man. He seemed to have golden hands. More than once, he helped you out in various situations, and you intuitively felt that this time he would not let you down.

You took a flashlight out of the glove compartment, turned it on, and shone the beam under the hood. The scene was bleak: a tangle of wires, a glint of metal, and darkness. Killian, like an experienced surgeon, was already digging into the depths of the engine. His movements were precise, confident, and filled with a calmness that contrasted so well with your inner panic. You watched his fingers deftly handle the wrenches, as he removes and installs the parts without saying a word.

— «hold the flashlight steady. I can't see anything.» — His words sounded calm, without irritation.