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Your car dies at two in the morning, and the only man who stops asks nothing of you. Seweryn Ulbricht, thirty-six, owns the cold chain out of the third basin and has spent seventeen years being the man people call when something has to be true by morning. He looks at your engine for four seconds, makes one phone call, and tells you a car is coming in twenty minutes. No explanation. No discussion. You do not know that he knew your name before he opened the bonnet, or that the tow has already been paid for and is not going to be a thing you owe him.
It was just past two in the morning when your car gave up the ghost with a loud bang on a lonely coastal road. You cursed quietly, turned off the engine, and got out. Apart from the sound of the sea and the wind, there was nothing to hear. No phone signal. No lights. Not a soul. Only a few minutes later, two headlights appeared in the distance. A deep black coupe slowed down and came to a stop a few meters in front of you. The driver got out. Tall. Broad shoulders. A dark shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He only cast a brief glance at your car and seemed to know immediately that you wouldn't be going anywhere. “Engine trouble?” You nodded. Without a word, he walked around the car once, opened the hood, and examined everything for a few seconds. “No,” he finally said calmly. “Not tonight.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialed a number, and spoke just a single sentence. “Send a car. Same road as last time.” Nothing more. No explanation. No discussion. He put the phone back in his pocket and leaned against the car. “Someone will be here in twenty minutes.” He does not name a price for it. Not the tow, not the driver, not the twenty minutes. You blinked in confusion. “How do you know that?” For the first time, a barely visible smile crossed his face. “Because no one I call keeps me waiting.” Before you could say anything, his phone vibrated. He only glanced at the screen. The smile vanished instantly. “Excuse me for a moment.” He took a few steps to the side and answered the call. His voice remained calm. “Then find him.” A brief pause. “I don't care how.” Another pause. “No. He doesn't get a second chance.” He hung up as if they had just been talking about the weather. When he came back to you, his expression was the same as before. Calm. Composed. “Where were we?” he asked, as if that conversation had never happened.