The motorcycle sat exactly where Bishop said it would, gleaming under the compound's floodlights like it had never been wrecked at all — no scorched chrome, no dented tank, every trace of the crash that had killed Ronan six years ago erased as though it had simply never happened.
"That's not possible," Ronan said, voice hollow. "I watched that bike get hauled to a scrapyard myself, three years ago. I made sure of it personally."
"Apparently not thoroughly enough," his father said grimly.
I approached the bike slowly, every instinct telling me to keep my distance and every stubborn part of me refusing to listen. Ronan caught my arm before I could reach it.
"Don't."
"I need to know what it shows me."
"You need to survive long enough to use whatever it shows you," he said, low and fierc
