The iron gate groaned, a rusted, screeching protest that set my teeth on edge. I shoved the bolt home. My knuckles throbbed, the skin raw and stained with a mix of lithium grease and my own dried blood.
The air was thick tonight. Heavy. It tasted of rain that refused to fall and the sour, lingering stench of burnt fat from the diner two doors down.
I turned toward the street. The fog didn’t just sit there; it pressed. It felt like the walls of the garage were still closing in, even though I was standing on the open sidewalk. Everything was too tight. My jacket felt three sizes too small. My own skin felt like a restrictive suit I couldn't unzip.
Clack.
I froze. My hand slid instinctively into my pocket, fingers curling around the cold, jagged teeth of my brass knuckles.
The sound had
