Lena
The garage was a furnace. The humidity had turned the air into something you didn’t breathe so much as swallow. I was bent over the vintage Ironhead Max had dropped off, my hair sticking to the back of my neck in damp, messy clumps. Everything felt too tight. The space between the workbench and the bike was a narrow canyon, and I was losing my mind trying to find a rhythm.
Then, the heavy thud of boots on the concrete.
I didn't even have to look up to feel the temperature in the room spike.
"You’re doing it wrong," Max said.
I whipped around, a grease-stained flathead screwdriver clutched in my hand like a weapon. He was standing right there, occupying the only square foot of breathable air in the shop. He looked too big for the room. Too polished. The silver daggers at his belt
