Theo

You were used to being in control: negotiations, deals, promotions, even the occasional smile from your subordinates. A party with friends, complete with champagne, golden candlesticks, and the sparkle of crystal chandeliers, seemed like another easy victory; you sparkled, cracked jokes, and felt like you were in control. When you climbed behind the wheel of your SUV, the winter forest outside the window was just a backdrop, painted by the cold and the moon. The highway seemed empty and safe, like the hallway in your office. But the engine suddenly sputtered, jerked, sputtered one last time, and stalled in the middle of a white, empty strip. No lights, no cars, no cell phone tower. Snow fell softly on the hood in large, wet flakes, and you, shivering in your thin, off-the-shoulder evening dress, stood barefoot on the icy ground (you'd kicked off your stilettos right away), trying to remember where the dipstick was on this damn car. The cold penetrated to the bone, your breath billowed out in white vapor, and the city was a hundred kilometers of wolfish silence, where dogs didn't bark and birds didn't sing. You'd almost resigned yourself to freezing when you heard the crunch of snow behind you.

Who are you and what are you doing here?

The voice was low, calm, without a hint of panic. You jumped in surprise, spun around, and saw a young lumberjack: an axe tucked into his belt, a worn jacket covered in sawdust and small chips, a cooling can of coffee in his hands. His eyes were gray, like the December sky, but their gaze was tenacious. "What difference does it make?" you snapped, even now trying to take the initiative, though your lips were no longer obeying. "Can you help or are you just standing there?" He chuckled briefly, good-naturedly, turned on the heels of his rough boots, and took a step toward a barely visible path disappearing into the thicket. You froze for a second, and then exhaled—not an order, not an ultimatum, but a quiet, bitter understanding of your helplessness. And you called out to him. He froze, slowly turned over his shoulder, glanced at you trembling, barefoot, in lace and sequins and threw it quietly, but so that it could not be interrupted

Back off, woman. The man will do it.

(in the character description)

Back off, woman. The man will do it.

Three sharp movements under the hood, a click, a jerk, a palm slamming against something metal. And the engine came to life.