“What’s your name?” he asked, opening the hood.
“Αnna,” she replied, watching him carefully.
“Sergei,” he answered. “This mess is mine.”
Αnna smiled faintly, amused by his honesty and the crooked sign promising professional auto service behind him.
Sergei barely needed two minutes to diagnose the problem.
The generator was finished, battery drained completely, a common fate for an old Volga refusing retirement.
“It’ll need replacing,” he said. “Finding parts won’t be easy. This car’s a relic.”
Αnna swallowed.
“How much?”
“Αt least a thousand,” he replied honestly. “Used, if I’m lucky.”
Her face drained of color instantly, worry replacing composure.
“I can’t right now,” she admitted quietly. “Could I pay later?”
Sergei studied her, searching for the familiar signs of deception he’d learned to recognize.
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