The Hidden Monarch

Chapter 3 – Grease and Dreams

The mornings in Sector Nine always smelled the same—burnt oil, rust, and rain that never washed anything clean. The garage where Aaric worked sat between two collapsed factories, its cracked sign barely holding the word “LIN’S AUTO & REPAIR.” The world called it junk. To Aaric, it was home.

When he woke, the hum of engines replaced lullabies. The clang of tools was his rhythm, the hiss of steam his heartbeat. He slept beside the hydraulic lift, curled in an old blanket, grease still clinging to his fingertips. In this little sanctuary of iron and smoke, the boy found the only peace he had ever known.

Each day began the same way:

he’d scrub his face with rainwater, knot his hair back with a piece of wire, and start coaxing life into dead machines. The city sent its broken things here—the kind of cars too old to fix, the kind of engines that people had given up on. Aaric never gave up.

“Everything breathes,” he would mutter, sliding under a car’s belly, his voice steady even when sparks kissed his cheek. “You just have to listen.”

Master Lin, before he died, had said that machines were more honest than people. They broke for reasons you could see. Their wounds were open, their pain mechanical. Aaric carried those words like gospel. He worked until his palms split, until his clothes stiffened from sweat and oil. But when the engines roared back to life, a strange warmth filled his chest—something close to happiness.

Sometimes, he would pause and look at the reflection of his eyes in a metal panel. They were the same eyes that once watched lightning tear the sky apart—gray, storm-bound, unflinching. The other mechanics teased him for it. “Those eyes look cursed,” one said. Aaric only smiled. Curses and blessings were the same in this city; both came with a price.

At night, he’d stay behind after the others left. He worked on a secret—an old motorcycle frame he’d salvaged from the junkyard. Every bolt, every spark was a promise to himself. One day, I’ll ride beyond this place.

He’d whisper those words every time his wrench turned. The machine became his confession, his rebellion, his dream forged in grease.

Weeks turned into months. Clients came and went—drivers, smugglers, factory owners pretending not to know where their vehicles went after dark. The city above grew richer; the slums below sank deeper. Aaric barely noticed, buried in work and ambition.

But peace, in his world, never lasted.

One afternoon, the garage door slammed open. Three men stepped in, all wearing sleek black jackets marked with the insignia of the Red Claw gang. Their leader, a tall brute with a gold tooth, tossed a set of keys onto the floor.

“Fix it fast, mechanic,” he said. “Our boss doesn’t like delays.”

Aaric bent down, examining the engine of the armored car. Bullet dents. Reinforced plating. Illegal fuel lines. He didn’t ask questions—asking could get you killed—but his silence spoke volumes.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” the gold-toothed man sneered. “Maybe I should make you scream, see if your throat still works.”

Aaric didn’t flinch. “You’ll get your car tomorrow.”

The man’s grin faded. “You think you can tell me when?”

“I’m telling you what the machine needs,” Aaric said evenly, tightening a bolt. “Not you.”

For a heartbeat, the garage froze. Then, instead of rage, the gangster laughed. “You’ve got a mouth for a rat. Fine. Tomorrow.”

When they left, Aaric sat in silence. He knew what it meant to cross the Red Claw—they’d either return with payment or with knives. But fear had long burned out of him. The city had already taken everything worth losing.

That night, he poured all his focus into the work. His hands moved with strange precision, his mind mapping every motion as if guided by something deeper than memory. He didn’t just repair engines—he understood them. When he touched metal, it seemed to hum in response.

By dawn, the car was not only fixed—it was improved. Its system was quieter, faster, deadlier. He looked at it and felt a chill. Why do I know how to do this?

He’d never studied mechanics beyond Lin’s teachings, yet he understood technology far beyond this century’s reach. It was as if his instincts came from somewhere else—another life.

The Red Claw returned at sunrise. The leader examined the car, impressed. “You’re wasted here, boy. Ever thought of working for us?”

Aaric’s answer was simple. “No.”

The smile vanished. “You’ll change your mind.”

They left with the car, but their eyes promised a return. Aaric returned to work, pretending nothing had happened. Yet, as he tightened the bolts on his secret bike, his heart raced. Somewhere deep within him, he felt movement—like the awakening of a machine long dormant.

Later that day, as the city’s smog turned crimson under the setting sun, Selene Ardyn appeared again.

Her car—sleek, silver, impossible—pulled up at the entrance. She stepped out in a white coat that glowed against the filth around her. The mechanics stopped working, mesmerized. Aaric froze, the wrench slipping from his hand.

She smiled softly. “Do you fix dreams here, too, Aaric?”

He wiped his hands on a rag, heart hammering. “Only if they’ve got engines.”

She laughed—a sound that didn’t belong in this place. “Good answer.”

Her car had a malfunction in its plasma regulator. As Aaric worked, Selene wandered through the garage, curious about his world. “You live here?” she asked.

“Where else?”

“You could be so much more,” she said, almost to herself. “You’ve got eyes like someone who doesn’t stay caged.”

Aaric didn’t reply. He wasn’t used to people seeing him—not really. Yet her gaze stripped him bare.

When the engine roared to life, she clapped softly. “You did it again.”

“It wasn’t broken,” he said. “Just… misunderstood.”

For a brief moment, her expression softened. “Like you.”

She paid him more than the job was worth, then added quietly, “There’s a place in the city—a scholarship program for engineers. I could recommend you.”

Aaric looked at the shining card in his hand, then at the blackened skyline beyond the garage. The thought of leaving the slums, of being seen, terrified him more than staying invisible. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

She smiled, a little sadly. “Don’t think too long. Some doors close forever.”

When she drove away, the world felt emptier.

That night, as Aaric returned to his secret motorcycle, the Red Claw came back. There were no smiles this time—only knives.

The gold-toothed man kicked over his bike frame. “Our boss liked your work so much, he wants your hands. Permanently.”

Aaric moved before he thought. The wrench in his grip spun like lightning, striking the man’s wrist. Bones cracked. Chaos erupted. Tools flew, sparks showered the air. He fought not like a boy, but like something trained, efficient—instinct guiding every motion.

When it ended, three men lay unconscious. Aaric stood panting, trembling. His reflection in an oil puddle stared back—eyes blazing with something not entirely human.

He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he sat beside the wrecked bike, hands trembling. The blood on his knuckles shimmered faintly in the low light, metallic like mercury. He wiped it away, but the glow lingered.

He whispered to the darkness, “What am I?”

The engines around him seemed to answer with a low hum, like a chorus remembering an ancient song.

In that moment, Aaric realized two truths:

he would never be ordinary, and this city—this cage of rust and greed—would one day bow to the sound of his engines.

He picked up his tools and got back to work.

For every blow the world dealt him, he would forge a blade.

For every dream it stole, he would build another.

And when dawn came, the first rays of light broke through the cracks in the roof, glinting off the steel he loved so fiercely.

In those beams, his eyes reflected gold for the first time.

Not the gold of wealth.

But of destiny.