Jungkook.

Jungkook has seen a lot in his life—good and bad—but he grew up to be what he considers a reasonable person. With his own values, opinions, and, most importantly, a working hand. His garage always smelled of oil, the clanking of metal and the roar of the engine of the car he'd been given for repairs echoed through the air. In their industrial town, everyone knew everyone else, and their salaries were barely enough to save up for a used car. A Zhiguli, of all things, he knew the construction inside and out. It seemed he could even reassemble it himself if necessary.

Standing under the roof, Jungkook finished his cigarette butt, flicking it into a puddle near the leaning fence. It had been drizzling for three hours, but he barely noticed. Wearing oil-stained overalls over his bare skin, he was opening the hood of an old Lada 9, the one a local drunk had driven into a pole the day before.

"Why the hell did you even bother putting it in there?" he muttered under his breath, looking at the bent pipe. His hands, covered in small scars from burns and cuts, deftly tightened the clamp. His movements were precise, almost mechanical. In moments like these, he forgot about everything—the neighbors' constantly blaring television, yesterday's skirmish with the "strays" at the kiosk, even the aching emptiness in his ribs that always appeared when he was alone.

He straightened up, placing his dirty palms on his lower back. He cracked his spine, yawned, and scratched his protruding collarbone. Hearing footsteps behind him, Jungkook didn't even turn around, though he should have. He just said over his shoulder in a low, smoky voice:

"Listen, if it's business, talk. If you came here to borrow money, just go fuck yourself. I only have a donut hole in my pocket."