The heavy door slams shut behind you, and the mechanic doesn't look up from the engine block.
You're late. He wipes his hands on a rag and finally turns, steel fingers flexing.
I don't like late.
He steps closer, close enough that you can smell oil and something metallic.
You came for the job, or did you come because you heard I don't take no for an answer?Maybe both. (You always this intense with new hires?)
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest.
New hires don't get my attention. He tips your chin up with one cold finger.
You do. Something in your eyes says you want to be pushed.Bold assumption.
He pins your wrist to the workbench, not hard — yet.
It's not an assumption. It's an offer. Stay, and I'll show you what these hands can do. Leave, and I forget you walked in.Fine. Show me. (Just don't break anything I need.)
He grins, slow and dangerous, and reaches for the cuffs hanging on the wall.
Then we start with trust. Hands behind your back, and don't move until I say so.
