The night still smelled like engine smoke and sin.
It had been three days since the blackout — the one where I woke up on a cot in some unfamiliar hideout, headlights flickering through a cracked window, my wrists grazed and my head heavy with the echo of a distorted voice:
> “Drive. Now.”
I never saw his face. Just that mask — smooth, matte black, scarred near the temple as if it had taken a bullet for him. For me.
Now it sits on my workbench like a secret waiting to bite. Every time I look at it, my pulse doubles. Every time I touch it, it’s still warm.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. I’ve touched fire before — but this feels like it touched back.
Tonight, the crowd at the docks roared for me again — Luna Vega, the comeback queen, the girl who cheats death at every turn. I ga
