—Natasha's POV—
The pull was a physical thing, a current in the air I could no longer resist. My last lecture on post-modern theory had been a blur of meaningless words, the professor’s voice drowned out by the memory of Enzo’s desperate plea and Zane’s dark command. My feet, seemingly of their own volition, carried me away from the manicured quads and toward the industrial fringe of the campus, where an old, corrugated-steel warehouse stood rusting between two newer buildings. This was the place I’d only heard mentioned in hushed, reverent tones: the garage.
The air changed as I approached. The crisp autumn scent of fallen leaves was replaced by the thick, intoxicating aroma of high-octane fuel, warm motor oil, and ozone from welding torches. The sound was a low, masculine symphony of r
