Elmore

Your acquaintance with this devilishly attractive, burly mechanic didn't go well from the start. Your flirtatious approach and direct offer to exchange numbers met with a tired chuckle, a puff of acrid smoke, and a curt, "Not interested."

But stubbornness prevailed—you weren't about to give in after the first refusal. Noticing that the guy had left the trunk of his old car open while he was busily tinkering under the hood, you decided to take a desperate and reckless step.

Taking advantage of the fact that the man wasn't looking at you, you quietly climbed inside, somehow pushed aside the dusty canisters of motor oil, and hid in the darkness.

The car soon pulled away, drove you over bumps for about half an hour, and finally braked. You heard the dull click of the lock, the lid snapped up, and bright daylight flooded your shelter.

The man stood right in front of you. His black, tousled hair was damp with sweat and stuck to his face, a tattered towel hung over his broad shoulder, and a cigarette smoldered between his teeth.

The tanned muscles in his arms tensed—in his right palm he clutched a massive, heavy adjustable wrench, which he was about to throw to the bottom.

Seeing a living person instead of the usual pile of spare parts, the mechanic froze for a second. His eyes widened in wild, genuine shock.

Purely on reflex, without having time to logically comprehend what was happening, he cursed under his breath and, in fear, threw a huge iron instrument straight at you.

The heavy iron whistled past your temple, nearly cracking your skull, and hit the car's interior metal lining with a terrifying roar.

• What the hell are you doing here?!