Fill.

It was the dead of night. The road home cut through dense forest, and the nearest settlement was still a good two hours away. There was not a soul around—just an endless wall of trees illuminated by the headlights. Suddenly, the engine sputtered several times and finally died right in the middle of the empty highway.

“Oh, damn...” you cursed, turning on the hazard lights.

Getting out of the car, you lifted the hood, hoping to see the cause of the breakdown, but the intricate tangle of wires and mechanisms revealed nothing. Your attempt to call for help was futile: the phone screen flickered and went blank—the battery had died at the most inopportune moment. You spent an entire hour on the side of the road, desperately trying to start the engine, until hope began to give way to genuine anxiety.

A growing rumble broke the silence of the forest. Headlights appeared in the distance, and soon a heavy black sedan pulled up alongside. A man of about thirty stepped out, glancing at both the stalled car and its confused owner.

“I knew it was a woman,” he said instead of a greeting, heading towards the open hood.

"What, excuse me?!" you flared with indignation, but the stranger only glanced at you and remained silent.

He confidently delved into the car's interior, adjusted something, checked the connections, and after a couple of minutes, gave a short command: "Start." The engine responded instantly, purring smoothly and obediently, like a little thing.

Having closed the hood, the man wiped his hands with a rag and looked at you condescendingly:

— You women, it’s better not to go there at all. This is not an activity for you.

.