Chapter 6: The Fix
The old Lada’s engine gave one final, sickly rattle and died completely, the silence that followed absolute and profound. Yong-Jin stood in the gathering dusk on the empty forest road, the cold biting through his thin jacket. He’d been on his way back from a parts run, a simple errand, when the car he’d just finished repairing at the shop had betrayed him. He popped the hood, a cloud of steam hissing out to meet the frigid air.
He was already deep under the hood, his fingers clumsy with cold, tracing fuel lines he couldn’t see clearly in the fading light, when the purr of a powerful engine approached from behind. The headlights washed over him, casting his long, distorted shadow onto the pine trees. He flinched, pulling his head out.
A black Mercedes G-Wagon, sleek and predatory, rolled to a stop just behind his lifeless Lada. The driver’s door opened.
Zykin unfolded himself from the vehicle, a tall, broad silhouette against the twilight. He was wearing a dark, tailored wool coat, looking utterly out of place on the gravel forest road. Yong-Jin’s heart did a nervous little leap. He jumped, then grinned, wiping a greasy hand on his trousers.
“Zykin! Funny meeting you again.”
Zykin walked closer, his boots crunching on the frozen gravel. That name, on those lips, in that accent—it sent a current straight through his core. He almost groaned.
“You call me Zykin every time.”
Yong-Jin beamed up at him, his breath puffing white in the air. “Yes. It is because I can’t pronounce your last name. It is almost impossible. Or I am just stupid.”
“You are not stupid,” Zykin said, the words coming out rougher than he intended. He looked past Yong-Jin at the dead car. “This is the one from the shop? The one you were laughing about.”
It wasn’t a question. Yong-Jin blinked, surprised he remembered. “Yes. It is… it is not so funny now.”
Zykin moved to stand beside him, peering into the engine bay. His proximity was overwhelming. Yong-Jin could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne over the pine and oil, could feel the sheer heat radiating from his body in the cold air. “What is wrong?”
“I think… maybe the fuel pump. Or the line. I cannot see,” Yong-Jin admitted, shivering.
Zykin didn’t touch the engine. He looked down at Yong-Jin, at the way his dark hair was mussed from the wind, the red tip of his nose, the grease smudged like a shadow on his cheekbone. A possessive ache tightened Zykin’s chest. This man, here, alone in the dark. His.
“You are freezing,” Zykin stated. He shrugged out of his heavy coat before Yong-Jin could protest and draped it over his shoulders. The weight and warmth of it, the residual heat from Zykin’s body, were immense. It swallowed Yong-Jin whole.
“Oh, no, I cannot—”
“You can.” Zykin’s tone brooked no argument. He pulled out his phone, typed a quick, one-handed text, and put it away. “My man will come for the car. It will be fixed tomorrow.”
Yong-Jin stuttered. “Your… but I work at a garage. I can fix it.”
“Not tonight. You will catch cold.” Zykin placed a hand on the small of Yong-Jin’s back, steering him gently but irresistibly toward the Mercedes. “I will take you. You need to get warm.”
The touch, even through the layers of fabric, was electric. Yong-Jin allowed himself to be guided, confused by the sudden intensity of the care. “Take me where? My apartment is in the other direction.”
“My place is closer. Ten minutes. You will have tea, warm up. Then I will drive you home.” Zykin opened the passenger door. The interior light illuminated the pristine leather, the polished wood.
It was too much. Too generous. A knot of suspicion twisted in Yong-Jin’s stomach, but it was unraveled by the bone-deep chill and the simple, desperate need to not be stranded. He nodded, climbing into the luxurious warmth. “Thank you. You are… very kind.”
Zykin said nothing as he closed the door. Kindness had nothing to do with it.
The drive was silent except for the hum of the heater. Yong-Jin sat wrapped in the coat, feeling like an imposter. He watched the endless black wall of the forest rush past, the headlights cutting a narrow tunnel through the night. He’d never been this deep into the woods north of the city. The road became rougher, then turned onto a barely-there track.
“Your place is here?” Yong-Jin asked, his voice small.
“Yes.”
A cabin materialized from the darkness, a solid, square shape of weathered logs under a steep, snow-dusted roof. A single window showed a faint, warm glow from within. It looked isolated. Final.
Zykin parked and came around to open his door. Yong-Jin hesitated, the animal part of his brain whispering a warning. But Zykin simply stood there, waiting, his scarred face impassive in the moonlight. He had given Yong-Jin his coat. He had picked him up off the side of the road. It seemed ridiculous to be afraid now.
He slid out. “It’s nice. Very quiet.”
“It serves its purpose.”
The key turned in a heavy, old-fashioned lock. The door swung inward with a groan. The air inside was warm, carrying the scent of pine sap, old leather, and beneath it, a faint, sharp hint of whiskey.
Zykin stepped in first, flicking on a lamp. The main room was sparse. A stone fireplace held cold ashes. A large, worn leather armchair faced it. A simple wooden table. Two doors led off to other rooms. It was clean, but it felt more like a bunker than a home. There were no personal touches, no photographs. Just a rifle leaning in one corner and a heavy ashtray on the table.
“Sit,” Zykin said, nodding to the armchair. “I will make tea.”
Yong-Jin shuffled in, feeling awkward in his borrowed coat. He took off his boots, placing them neatly by the door, and sank into the chair. It was deep and enveloping, and it still held the impression of another body. Zykin’s. He watched the man move to a small kitchenette, filling a kettle, his movements efficient and controlled. The tattoos on his wrists and neck were visible now in the lamplight, intricate, dark patterns that told stories Yong-Jin knew he shouldn’t ask about.
“You live here alone?” Yong-Jin asked, just to break the silence.
“Always.”
“It must get lonely.”
Zykin turned, the kettle hissing on the stove behind him. His green eyes caught the light. He studied Yong-Jin, sitting in his chair, drowning in his coat. “It did. Before.”
The meaning hung, unspoken and heavy, in the air between them. Yong-Jin felt a blush creep up his neck. He looked away, at the crack in the window glass, the frost spiderwebbing around the edges.
The tea was strong and sweet, served in a plain porcelain mug. Zykin did not sit. He leaned against the mantelpiece, cradling his own mug, watching Yong-Jin drink.
“You watch me,” Yong-Jin said softly, not looking up. “At the shop. You are in the black Mercedes, sometimes.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. The words just came out, pulled from him by the strange, pressurized intimacy of the cabin.
Zykin didn’t deny it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
The answer was so simple, so utterly devoid of pretext, that it stole Yong-Jin’s breath. He finally looked up. Zykin’s gaze was a physical weight, full of a stark, terrifying hunger. This wasn’t just kindness. This was something else entirely.
“You should not,” Yong-Jin whispered.
Zykin pushed off from the mantel. He set his mug down on the table with a quiet click. He took two slow steps forward until he was standing over the chair, looking down. Yong-Jin shrank back, but there was nowhere to go.
“Why?” Zykin asked, his voice low.
“I… I am just a mechanic.”
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched Zykin’s scarred mouth. It wasn’t friendly. It was possessive. “You are not just anything.”
He leaned down then, one hand braced on the arm of the chair, caging Yong-Jin in. He didn’t touch him. He just looked, his eyes tracing every feature of Yong-Jin’s face—the wide, dark eyes, the parted lips, the grease smudge he’d seen earlier. With a deliberation that made Yong-Jin’s blood thrum, Zykin raised his other hand. His thumb brushed gently, slowly, across his cheekbone, wiping away the smudge.
His touch was searing.
“See?” Zykin murmured, his voice a rough whisper. “You are here now. In my home. In my chair. Wearing my coat.” He held his thumb up, showing Yong-Jin the streak of engine grease. “And I know your face better than my own.”
He straightened up, leaving Yong-Jin trembling, heart hammering against his ribs. The moment stretched, thin and taut as a wire.
Then Zykin turned and walked back toward the kitchen, his tone shifting back to mundane. “Your tea is getting cold.”
Outside, the wind picked up, moaning through the pines and rattling the cracked glass in the window. Inside, the silence was louder. Yong-Jin stared into his mug, the warmth of the tea doing nothing to hide the bright flush on his cheeks and neck.