Lena
The garage door was still rattling from the force of the wind, the metal-on-metal screeching a jagged rhythm. Inside, the heat was suffocating. It wasn't just the humidity; it was the radiator-heat coming off Max as he stood over the Ducati. Everything felt too tight—the rows of wrenches, the smell of burnt fat from the diner, the way his shadow seemed to stretch and swallow the entire workbench.
I wiped a streak of grease across my forehead, my hands trembling.
"You can't just kill people in my alley, Max," I said. My voice was a thin wire ready to snap. "He’s a person, not a scrap part."
"He was a threat," Max said. He didn't look up. He was busy cleaning a smear of blood off his knuckle with a rag that was already black with oil.
"A threat to you! I was fine until you brought
