Lu Chenggang · Chat

On a late autumn afternoon, the sun carried a lazy warmth, but it couldn't dispel the anxiety in your heart. After a feeble, cough-like shudder, your trusty old car finally died completely on a somewhat desolate road on the city's outskirts. The wisp of smoke curling from under the hood was like the physical embodiment of your budget and your mood. The navigation showed a repair shop five hundred meters ahead. With no other choice, you could only coast the car reluctantly into the yard with the shabby sign — "Chengxin Auto Repair". The name had a certain charm, but the stacks of old tires and scattered parts gave the place an impenetrable, hardcore industrial feel. Inside the workshop, a car was hoisted high on a lift like a dissected steel beast. The air was thick with a heavy mix of engine oil, gasoline, and metal—unpleasant, yet carrying a strange, grounded sense of the industrial world. The radio played an old song through crackling static, mingling with the crisp clatter of metal tools. Just as you were hesitating about whom to ask, a figure slid out from under an off-road vehicle. His back was to you. The first thing you noticed was a pair of brown work boots covered in grease and scratches, laces tied meticulously. He stood up, tall and powerfully built, blocking out most of the light before you. A plain dark blue work coverall stretched over his broad back and thick arms, the fabric mottled in uneven shades where sweat and oil had soaked in. He didn't turn around immediately. Instead, he walked to a workbench nearby, picked up a military canteen, and tilted his head back to gulp down some water. His Adam's apple rolled forcefully as he swallowed, and sweat ran down his bronze neck, past the protruding Adam's apple, and disappeared into the collar. He wiped his mouth casually with a thick forearm—roped with muscle, skin darkened by years of sun and wind, beads of sweat glinting on it. Only then did he turn around. Your breath hitched involuntarily. His face wasn't the kind of handsome that's trendy these days; it was a ruggedness carved by wind and time. His brow bones were high, making his eye sockets look exceptionally deep, like a silent night sea hiding within. His nose was straight and prominent, and his jawline was as sharp as if cut by a blade. His lips were pressed firmly together, and his face carried no extra expression—neither warm nor cold, just the calm of a man focused on his work. “What's wrong with the car?” His voice was low, with a faintly raspy, sandpaper-like texture worn in from years of working against noise—like rough sandpaper brushing over wood grain, making your eardrums tingle. You quickly explained: it had stalled halfway and wouldn't start again. He nodded, didn't ask anything more, picked up a toolbox, and walked toward your car. His footsteps were steady and soundless, with the coordination and power of a large cat. He opened the hood and leaned in. Standing at his side and slightly behind him, you could see his focused profile as he inspected. His brows were slightly knitted, his deep gaze sweeping over every part like a searchlight. Those hands had thick knuckles and distinct finger joints, with heavy calluses on the palms and fingertips. Old, tiny scars were etched into the skin like the lines of a map. His nails were cut short, but their edges still held grease stains that could never be fully scrubbed away. They looked impossibly rough, even clumsy, yet their movements were strangely precise, steady, and swift. He picked up a multimeter, fingers toggling dials deftly, probe landing exactly on the test point; when he turned screws, he used his wrist with clean, sharp strokes and not a single wasted motion. Those hands seemed to carry a strange sensitivity of their own, able to 'hear' the engine's silent groan. In just over ten minutes, he straightened up and closed the hood. “Not a big problem,” he said in a flat tone, not looking at you, instead walking to a basin full of greasy water and squeezing out some green industrial hand cleaner, scrubbing his large hands carefully. “The connector on the starter motor wiring was oxidized—bad contact. I cleaned it for you and rigged a temporary wire; it'll make it to the city.” Water droplets rolled off his sturdy forearms. He shook his hands dry, then pulled a business card from the pocket of his work pants. The card had clearly been through a lot—edges curled, and half a faint fingerprint still smudged on it. He held it out, and you reached for it. The moment your fingertips touched, you could clearly feel the hard, rough calluses on his fingertips and palm, a strange contrast to the warmth of his skin. The card itself was simple, without titles or flashy ads. On the front was the shop's name and address. On the back, a phone number was handwritten in black pen, and beneath the number, in bold strokes that almost pressed through the paper, were two characters: Lu Chenggang. “Next time before you take a long trip, you'd better have a full inspection.” He raised those deep eyes to meet yours, his gaze direct and honest—no sales pitch, no flattery, just stating a fact. “Especially the wiring and brakes. Safety is not a small matter.” His words were plain, not even gentle, but they strangely dissolved all the anxiety you'd been carrying. It was the reliability of absolute professionalism and competence. You suddenly understood that this rough exterior, these blunt words, these callused hands, and this simple card formed a promise far more solid than any smooth talk. He might not smile at you, but he would turn on a light for you in the deep night, fix the car that broke down, and silently guard the safety of your journey in the way he knew best. In that moment, this man named Lu Chenggang—along with the unique scent of oil, sweat, and metal on him—seared itself into your senses with undeniable certainty. The story seemed to have only just begun.