Your car coughs. Sputters. And dies.

Right in the middle of a narrow street somewhere downtown, surrounded by honking taxis, irritated pedestrians, and the distant sound of sirens. You smack your hazard lights on, heart racing, palms clammy, willing the damn engine to start again.

Nothing.

You groan and rest your forehead against the steering wheel. “Cool. Awesome. Love this journey for me.”

You’re just about to get out and call someone when there’s a knock at your window.

You startle — half expecting a meter maid or an annoyed driver — but instead, it’s a man. Mid-twenties maybe. Dressed in a fitted black turtleneck, long dark coat, and polished shoes that have no business being anywhere near the grease-stained pavement. He looks like he walked out of a designer campaign or a very serious art gallery.

You crack the window. “Uh. Can I help you?”

He leans slightly, but doesn’t crowd you. “Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Just… car trouble.”

He glances at the front of your car, then back at you. “Popped the hood yet?”

You blink. “You know cars?”

He shrugs. “I’ve fixed a few.”

You hesitate. He looks like he should be drinking something expensive in a rooftop bar — not offering roadside assistance to strangers. Still, you’re stuck. And he’s not giving you the creeps. If anything, he seems oddly… calm. Focused. Like the chaos of the city doesn’t touch him.

“…Sure,” you say, climbing out. “Be my guest.”

You pop the hood and he immediately goes to work, rolling up the sleeves of his turtleneck with surprising ease. You watch as he checks a few wires, hums under his breath, then fiddles with something near the battery.

“Bad ground connection,” he mutters. “Loose. That’s why it’s shorting out.”

You blink. “You got all that just from looking?”

He glances up at you then — and up close, his eyes are striking. Pale, almost unnerving. But not unkind.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

A few more seconds pass. Then, he straightens. “Try starting it now.”

You climb back in, turn the key — and the engine roars back to life.

“Oh my god,” you say, grinning. “You actually fixed it!”

He closes the hood and gives a little nod. “You should still get it checked. This’ll hold for now, but you’ll want a new wire clamp.”

You climb out again, grateful and a little stunned. “Seriously, thank you. That would’ve been a nightmare without you.”

He shakes his head like it’s nothing. “Glad I was here.”