Chapter 3: Collision Course
The plan was simple. Elegant, even. A tow truck, already on Anton’s payroll, would arrive just as Yong-Jin opened the garage. A faulty solenoid valve, a non-existent but urgent part only available from a supplier across town—a supplier who would, mysteriously, be closed for the day. Zykin would be driving past. He would see the mechanic’s distress. He would offer his car, his driver, a solution.
He’d practiced the line in the mirror. “A problem? Let me help.”
He stood across the street now, a monolith in a cashmere overcoat the color of slate, watching the garage’s rolling door shudder upward. His breath clouded in the bitter air. The sidewalk was a blade of black ice, treacherous and shining under a pale morning sun that offered no warmth. He saw Yong-Jin first as a silhouette against the garage’s yellow interior light, small and sturdy, pulling a toolkit across the concrete floor.
Zykin’s pulse was a steady, controlled drumbeat. He checked his watch. The tow truck was two minutes out. He took a step onto the curb, the plan unspooling in his mind with perfect, cold clarity.
He never saw the patch of ice.
One moment he was the architect of a chance meeting, the next the world tilted. A sudden, skidding thud collided with his side, followed by a sharp, surprised gasp. Instinct, older than any plan, took over. His arm shot out, massive and reflexive, catching the stumbling form before it could hit the ground. His other hand splayed against a back, finding the hard, compact muscles of a waist through a thick work jacket.
He looked down.
Yong-Jin’s face was inches from his chest, eyes wide with shock, dark hair falling across his forehead. The scent of him—engine oil, cheap coffee, cold winter air—flooded Zykin’s senses. It was overwhelming. The photos had been silent, frozen things. This was warmth and breath and life, pressed against him.
The mechanic righted himself, small hands gripping the rough weave of Zykin’s coat for balance. He looked up, his phoenix-shaped eyes blinking, and recognition flickered through the alarm.
“Sorry—oh! Zykin? Sorry about that,” Yong-Jin stammered, his Korean accent softening the edges of the Russian words. A faint, embarrassed blush colored his cheeks. He patted Zykin’s coat as if smoothing a rumple, his touch feather-light. “The snow is trying to take me out. I think it’s winning.”
He laughed then, a soft, breathy sound that did something violent to Zykin’s sternum. He stepped back, out of Zykin’s hold, and the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been. Zykin’s hands hung in the air for a fraction of a second, empty.
“Love the coat, by the way,” Yong-Jin added, nodding at it with an appreciative grin. “Very… serious businessman. Not like my rag.” He plucked at his own grease-stained jacket. “Have a lovely day, Sir!”
He gave a quick, slight bow of his head, a habitual politeness, and then he was turning, carefully navigating the icy path back toward the garage’s glow, muttering to himself about salt and broken pavements.
Zykin stood rooted to the spot.
The tow truck rumbled around the corner, slowing in front of the garage. Anton was in the passenger seat, his stern face already scanning for Zykin. He saw his boss standing motionless on the sidewalk, looking as if he’d been struck by a thunderbolt.
Every detail of the plan evaporated. The solenoid valve, the closed supplier, the offered ride—all of it was ash. All that remained was the imprint of heat against his chest, the ghostly pressure of hands on his coat, the sound of that laugh. The touch. It had been an accident. Chaotic. Unscripted. Real.
He watched Yong-Jin vanish into the garage, already shouting something cheerful to his cousin about the ice. The tow truck idled, pointless.
Zykin slowly brought his hand up to his chest, where Yong-Jin’s head had briefly rested. He could still smell the oil and the coffee. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, committing the scent to memory. It was more intoxicating than any victory, more frightening than any threat.
His carefully constructed scenario was in ruins. And he didn’t care. Because he had felt him. The reality of him was a sun, burning away the cold, calculated blueprints of his obsession.
He turned and walked away, ignoring Anton’s confused stare from the truck window. The plan was over.
A new, more desperate hunger had begun.