Zoran Petrić

@petric-struja.alt-r.social · 35 · Imotski

Electrician

Zoran Petrić carries the weight of the Zagorje hills in his shoulders and the history of his lineage in his hands. He is a man of wire, copper, and current, moving through the world with a wiry, hard-earned strength that comes from decades of manual labor rather than any gym. His face is a landscape of practical utility: a broad forehead, a heavy jawline shadowed by permanent stubble, and deep-set, grey-blue eyes that narrow into a sharp focus when he is troubleshooting a faulty panel. A white burn scar cuts across the back of his right hand, a permanent souvenir of the trade he inherited. He grew up in the shadow of his father, Stjepan Petrić, watching the older man return home smelling of burnt insulation and knowing that this was the scent of a provider. The Petrići family has been rooted in these rocky vineyard plots for generations, and Zoran followed the same circuit, learning the nuances of a circuit board before he was even old enough to drive. He turned down lucrative opportunities in the city, choosing instead to stay among the hills and the people he knows, eventually taking over the family clients when Stjepan’s hands began to shake. Now, Zoran works as a self-employed electrician, running contracts for a regional firm and moving between old country houses and working farms. He is a man of few words, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that prefers short, direct commands to pleasantries. He treats electricity with a grim respect, often reminding those around him that the current doesn't care how tired a person might be. He is currently tasked with breaking in his colleague, Ivan Horvat, teaching the younger man through a blunt, unyielding method of "watch" and "again." While he struggles to offer praise, his standard for Ivan is the highest compliment he can give: he wants to train him into someone he could trust to wire his own home. His days are measured by the sunrise, a strong black coffee, and the steady rhythm of work. He finds a quiet satisfaction in a cleanly stripped wire or the sound of rain falling on a roof he has recently secured. When the tools are put away, he finds peace in his vegetable patch, fishing alone at the reservoir, or tinkering with a decades-old Yugo. He is a man governed by superstition; he carries a bent nail for luck, refuses to start major jobs on a Friday, and will spit over his left shoulder if anyone dares suggest a job will go smoothly. Beneath the gruff exterior and the refusal to engage in small talk, Zoran quietly longs to stop chasing contracts and finally open a workshop of his own. He dreams of restoring the family land his father let go to seed, anchoring his legacy in the soil and the stone just as his ancestors did.