Chapter 5
1129 Words
I’m late. Enough for Marcus to notice.
The shutter’s already up when I walk in, the noise hitting first—tools, metal, someone swearing over something that won’t line up right. Oil and heat and something burnt hanging in the air.
Marcus looks up from where he’s leaning over the front of a car, rag thrown over his shoulder.
“Took your time.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
He straightens a little, wipes his hands off slow. “Could fire you.”
“You won’t though.”
A beat.
Then he huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head like he’s tired of me already.
“Get inside. You look like shit.”
“Feel worse.”
“Good,” he mutters, turning back to the engine. “Means you’re awake.”
The garage settles into its usual rhythm. Zach’s car is up on the lift, hood open, half the guys crowded around it like it’s something worth saving. It isn’t.
“Did you even check the engine before you bought it?” someone calls.
Zach’s voice comes back quick, defensive. “It ran better when I got it.”
“Yeah? Downhill?”
Laughter.
I don’t stay out there long. Just enough to feel it—noise, heat, movement—before I slip into the office and shut the door behind me.
Quieter. Not quiet.
The desk’s the same as I left it. Papers stacked. Books open. Numbers waiting. The police scanner from last night is shoved over in the corner, I leave it there.
I drop into the chair, pull everything in front of me, and get to work.
Hours blur. Invoices. Parts. Orders. Balances that don’t quite match until I make them. Systems I know well enough not to think about anymore.
My phone sits to the side. Lights up.
5 works.
I don’t react.
I’ll be there.
Send.
Back to numbers.
Voices bleed in through the door. Music cuts in and out when someone turns it on, then off again when Marcus yells about it.
Time moves without asking.
By the time I look up again, the light’s shifted. Duller. Later.
I lean back, rolling my shoulders once, then twice. My neck cracks. Feels better.
A knock—then the door opens without waiting.
Kian.
He leans against the frame, arms crossed, like he’s not here for long.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You still in for tonight?”
I glance back at the desk. Everything done. Clean.
"Yeah.”
He nods once. “Cars will be there at one. Can't leave them there much longer.”
"That's fine."
He nods, and pushes off the frame, already turning away. No more questions. Doesn’t need them.
I watch the door close behind him. Then I reach for my jacket.
The bus is half-empty.
End of the day, but not quite rush hour. People spread out, keeping distance without thinking about it.
I take a seat near the back.
The city shifts as we move.
The garage disappears behind us—brick and noise and heat—replaced by wider roads, then narrower again. Industrial stretches first. Open ground that shouldn’t be open, water pooled where it doesn’t drain right. Fences that don’t keep anything out.
Then further in.
Buildings change. Taller. Cleaner. Not new—but maintained.
Even.
The bus slows, stops. Doors open with a hiss.
I get off.
The gym sits tucked between two better-looking buildings, like it doesn’t belong but refuses to leave. Lights on inside. Windows fogged just enough to blur the movement. I push the door open.
Heat hits first. Then the sound—gloves hitting pads, steady and sharp.
I don’t stop.
The ring’s at the center. He’s already in it.
Moving clean. Fast. Controlled.
His coach works the pads, calling it out—short, precise. No wasted words.
He doesn’t see me at first.
I lean against the edge of the wall, arms loose, and watch.
He’s better than the last time I saw him.
More controlled. Less… eager. Still hits hard.
The coach calls a break.
He drops his hands, breathing heavier now, turning—
Sees me.
There’s a flicker of surprise. Then recognition settles in. He steps out of the ring, pulling his gloves off as he walks over.
“Haven't heard from you in a while. You know you don't have to be a stranger.”
“I know.”
He huffs a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. “What’s up?”
Straight to it.
“I’ve got something for you.”
He leans back slightly, rolling his shoulder once. “Yeah?”
“A fight.”
That gets his attention. “It’s legit?”
I hold his gaze.
“Depends what you mean by that.”
He watches me for a second longer. “When?” he asks.
“Eleven-thirty.”
He exhales through his nose. “That’s not normal.”
“It pays.” A beat. “Good money. If you win.”
He studies me. “What do you have to do with this?”
I don’t answer straight away. Then—
“You’d be doing me a favour.” A beat. “If I don’t get someone in, I’ve got a problem.”
He doesn’t buy it. Not fully. Takes a step closer, voice dropping a notch. “Indie.”
Just my name. That’s enough.
His eyes flick over me, like he’s trying to line up what I’m saying with what he’s seeing.
“We don’t talk for months,” he says, quieter now, “and you show up asking me to fight underground at midnight?”
I don’t react.
He exhales, tension sitting in his shoulders. “What are you mixed up in?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
A beat.
He watches me a second longer, searching for something I’m not giving him.
Then—
“You alright?”
"I'm fine, Joney. I've got it covered."
Simple.
He looks away for a second, thinking. Jaw tight, then loosening.
"You said it pays."
"Oh it pays."
"How much?"
"If you win, twenty. If you lose, nothing. Don't lose."
A longer pause this time.
Then—
“…Alright.”
There it is.
“You’re in?”
He nods once. “Yeah. I’m in.”
I smile.
“Good."
He rolls his shoulders again, like he’s already thinking about it. Already stepping into it.
“Send me the details.”
“I will.”
I push off the wall.
“Tonight,” I add. “Be ready.”
He nods again.
I turn before he can ask anything else.
Before he thinks too hard about it.
Better to tell him later.
- Writer
