Punished by a Dragon Mechanic

Just when I think my day can’t get any worse, it laughs and proves me wrong. There I am, in the middle of a brewing storm, and my old, reliable car decides it’s had enough. So much for being dependable. After a few attempts to start it, all I get are coughs instead of vrooms. It’s late evening, I’m in the heart of the woods, and the last car I saw was ages ago. Feels like the perfect setup for a horror movie.

I take a deep breath, trying not to panic. Checking my phone, I find no signal - typical. But luck’s on my side for once with downloaded maps and a still-functional GPS. Near enough, there’s a mechanic shop. Let’s hope it’s more welcoming than it sounds, and not a scene straight out of those movies I’d rather not be starring in right now.

With no choice left, I brace myself and step out into the rain, clutching my jacket in a feeble attempt to stay dry. As if on cue, the heavens decide to unleash a torrential downpour, quickly drenching me from head to toe. My jacket turns out to be as effective as a sieve in holding back water. With the mechanic shop as my beacon of hope, I forge ahead, determined not to spend the night stranded in my car.

The journey to the mechanic’s feels more like an aquatic obstacle course. Each puddle feels like a mini ocean, and I half-expect a wayward fish to glide past my waterlogged shoes. Despite the dismal situation, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of my predicament. “Great day for a walk,” I mutter to myself. I should’ve brought a boat.

At last, the mechanic shop looms ahead, a sight for sore eyes. The warm glow of its lights cuts through the rain, offering a glimmer of hope. I push open the door, a cascade of rainwater following me in. The unmistakable scent of machine oil and metal welcomes me. The place is packed with cars, hinting at a thriving business, which is somewhat surprising given its remote location.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the spacious garage. I’m dodging puddles I’ve created and navigating around scattered tools and car parts, feeling a bit like I’ve walked onto a movie set where the next line is crucial. “Um, anyone here?” I try again, half-expecting this to cue some ominous background music.

Then, I hear movement. The sight of the man emerging from behind a truck instantly wipes all thoughts of horror movie clichés from my mind. He’s towering, built like a tank, with hands wiping on a cloth as if he’s just finished sculpting cars rather than fixing them. I pride myself on not being easily overshadowed - I’ve got my own set of curves and height that usually stand out - but standing before him, I suddenly feel like I’ve shrunk a few sizes.

His hair is shorn close to the scalp, adding to his no-nonsense, military aura. Those deep blue eyes of his cut right through the grease and grime of the garage, sharp and assessing. For a moment, I wonder if he’s more of a bodybuilder or some kind of special forces retiree turned mechanic.

“Car troubles?” he asks, his voice deep and grounding, echoing through the garage.

After a moment of stunned silence, I manage to gather my wits. “Ah, yes, my car broke down about half a mile up the road,” I say, pointing in the general direction. “This seemed like the only place I could turn to.”

He looks me over, probably taking in my drenched state. Suddenly, I’m conscious of how I must look - a mess, more or less like a wet stray cat. “I’ve got money for the repairs,” I blurt out, stretching the truth.

The reality is, I’m practically penniless, with barely enough to cover a few gallons of gas and maybe a sandwich for the road.

He meets my gaze again, nods slowly, and says, “I’ll get your car. There’s a shower back there you can use,” pointing towards the back.

Without another word, he disappears into the storm. I’m left wondering how he plans to bring my car back - by sheer force? I wouldn’t put it past him. With a mental shrug, I decide to just go with it and head for the shower.

In the bathroom, I can’t help but quickly check for hidden cameras - just in case. It looks straightforward enough, seemingly safe. Peeling off my soaked layers and stepping into the shower, I think about how crazy it is to just walk into a stranger’s bathroom like this. If he turned out to be a creep, I’m practically serving myself up on a platter. But then, the hot water hits me, and suddenly, any doubts seem worth the risk.

Refreshed from the shower and draped in what feels like the softest towel in existence, I step out into the somewhat cooler air of the garage, feeling a bit more human and a little less like a drowned rat. My clothes, still damp but no longer dripping, hang limply from my arms. The mechanic is nowhere in sight, which gives me a moment to collect myself and prepare for whatever comes next.

The garage is quiet, save for the drumming of rain on the roof and the occasional distant rumble of thunder. It’s almost peaceful, and I find myself wandering around, admiring the organized chaos of tools and parts, the way each seems to have its place amidst the disorder.

I start to wonder where my mysterious savior has gone, when he reappears, pushing my car into the garage with what seems like minimal effort. The sight is both impressive and slightly intimidating.

“Found it just where you said,” he states. “Doesn’t seem like anything too serious, but I’ll need to take a closer look.”

He then gives me a quick glance, and I swear there’s a brief flicker in his eyes, as if his irises changed shape. It must be just a trick of the light. Quickly, he turns away and points towards a door, saying, “There’s some spare clothing in there,” before he heads off to tinker with my car. I throw a grateful “thanks” over my shoulder and hurry towards the office, shaking off the eerie feeling. I must be imagining things. Eyes don’t just change shape and color, right?

The office is a mirror of the garage’s organized chaos. A pile of clothes sits on a chair, among them a shirt and oversized overalls. They’re way too big, but at this point, dry and clean is all I’m asking for.

Meanwhile, my brain is on overdrive, scheming up ways to wiggle out of my current situation. Ever since my real estate venture tanked, leaving me drowning in debt, I’ve had to resort to a few minor cons to keep afloat. Not exactly my proudest achievements, but desperation doesn’t pick favorites. I figure, I’ll conjure up some clever escape plan when push comes to shove. The mechanic, for all his towering presence, strikes me as the quiet, small-town type. A big city gal like me should be able to charm my way out, get my car fixed, and skedaddle without a backward glance.

Though he is incredibly attractive and I wouldn’t mind having some other activities with him, if I was honest with myself. It’s been a long dry spell since I was more focused on trying to stay afloat with my finances. I’m half a mind asking him if he’d accept other type of ‘payment’ for his timely rescue. But then I decide not to - it would immensely awkward if he rejected my indecent proposal.

Just as I’m about to head back to the garage, something shiny tucked behind a stack of books on a shelf catches my eye. Curiosity piqued, I lean in for a closer look and nearly gasp. There, lying in a less-than-organized heap, is what looks like a collection of golden coins. Glancing outside, I see the mechanic engrossed in my car, oblivious to my discovery. I pick up a coin, feeling its weight - definitely gives off a real treasure vibe. A whole stash of them just sitting here? This guy must be some sort of collector. But then, why toil away in a dusty mechanic shop with a fortune like this at hand? Beats me - people are full of surprises. Barely a second thought later, one of the coins finds its way into my pocket. He’s unlikely to notice its absence anytime soon, and by then, I’ll be nothing but a dot on the horizon.

I stroll over to the car with what I hope is an air of cool indifference. “How’s it looking?” I ask, layering on the charm. They say a sweet voice can work wonders on men, can make them overlook the little things.

“It’s not too bad. Should have it running in about an hour,” he replies, not looking up.

But then, his eyes catch mine, narrowing just a tad. My heart skips a beat. Is he onto me? Or maybe he’s just puzzled to see his own wardrobe making a comeback on me.

He straightens up, towering over me, an imposing figure of muscle and intent, fixing me with a look that feels like it’s trying to pierce right through me. “Stealing from someone trying to help you is a low move,” he states, his voice firm.

I play it cool. “What do you mean?” My heart’s racing, but I’m all innocence.

He doesn’t bite. “But stealing from a dragon?” He shakes his head, a mix of disbelief and a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Dragon?” The word slips out.

Maybe he’s got a screw loose, and this is a horror movie in the end. I step back. Then, as if on cue, the transformation begins. His skin starts to shimmer, giving way to scales that glitter under the garage lights. His teeth elongate, sharpening into a predator’s grin, while his fingers morph into claws, formidable and sharp. Before my eyes is a dragon in human form, a majestic and terrifying sight.

“Stealing from a dragon is plain stupid. Unless you have a wish to be severely punished,” he growls, his voice now a deep rumble that vibrates through me.

Oh, shit. What have I gotten myself into?