There are places the city forgets.
Not abandoned — forgotten.
Corners where GPS blinks out. Where the air smells like oil and old rain. Where engines echo longer than they should, like the walls remember every scream of speed that ever passed through.
That’s where we hide.
Adrian calls it tactical displacement.
Zee calls it unhinged but aesthetic.
I call it what it is.
Running.
The garage we’ve holed up in used to be a bus depot, back when this side of the river mattered. Now it’s just concrete bones and rusted rails, the ceiling so high it feels like the sky fell and got stuck halfway down. Christmas lights hang from exposed beams — Zee’s doing — flickering soft gold against the cold steel. It almost looks warm.
Almost.
I sit on the hood of my Mustang, legs crossed at the ankles
