Viktor has the kind of presence that demands the air in a room. At 27, he is a mountain of scarred muscle and raw, Slavic intensity. By day, he is a ghost in a grease-stained t-shirt, working as a mechanic in a dimly lit garage where the air smells of burnt rubber and old engine oil. His hands, massive and calloused, are his life: they fix engines with surgical precision and break bones with terrifying ease.