The adrenaline started to ebb, and the pain flooded back in. My head pounded, the side of my face sticky with blood, my ribs aching, my side wet with what was probably a quarter pint of O+. But I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the back door of Inked Rebellion like I could will Ransom to walk through it right now, see that I’d kept his place safe, see that I’d bled for it.
The shop was trashed, but the flash on the wall—the art, the thing that mattered—was still mostly there. Ugly black lines and curses, but underneath, Ransom’s work showed through. Strong. Unfuckwithable.
The teenager sagged against the wall, breathing in wheezes, every ounce of fight gone.
I keyed my mic, voice shaking with something that felt like pride and shame at once. “Dispatch, this is Hardesty. Suspect in custody. Request medical at Inked Rebellion, and an extra unit for transport.”
There was a pause, then: “Copy, Sheriff. Are you—do you need medical, too?”
I looked down at myself—blood, bruises, my shirt torn open like I’d been mauled by a bear. I thought of what Ransom would say. I tried to imagine his face, his hands, the way he’d clean up every wound and not judge me for how I’d gotten it.
I pressed the mic, voice steadier now: “Negative. Just send backup.”
I stood there until the sirens grew close, the blue lights making the alley look like the inside of a dream. My heart slowed, the anger settling into a cold, clear burn.
It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. But at least this time, I’d fought for something worth saving.
I thought I had the kid pinned, but the second my grip slipped—just a fraction—he twisted and jammed an elbow straight into my throat. I coughed, the world going gray at the edges, and he shoved me backward with everything he had. My head cracked against the brick wall so hard I heard bells, like the whole universe had a new ringtone.
For a second, nothing worked. My legs went soft, hands numb. The alley became a tunnel, the lights at the far end suddenly miles away. I tried to push off the wall, but the blood from my temple got in my eye, and my vision doubled, then tripled. Two, maybe three vandals ran for the end of the alley, but I knew only one was real.
I staggered after, slipping on my own blood. Every step was a gamble—would my knee hold, would my ribs crack, would my brain finish rebooting before I hit the pavement again? I made it to the door, braced myself on the jamb, and saw the suspect disappear into the alley’s mouth, shoes slapping wet against concrete.
I tried to radio in the direction of travel, but the words came out garbled. My tongue was too thick. The mic fell from my hand and dangled, swinging like a plumb line. I could hear the dispatcher’s voice—panicked now, repeating my callsign—but it sounded like it was coming from inside a tin can.
I blinked, tried to follow, but the street was a kaleidoscope of red and blue, colors smearing and blending with the blood in my eye. My left leg buckled, and I caught myself with a palm to thecurb, skinning it open. I made it three steps onto the sidewalk before the lights in my head started to spin.
There was a cruiser up the block—backup, finally, but way too late. I saw Deputy Latham’s face as he jumped from the car, saw the alarm flash across his features. He shouted my name, but it was like he was on the other side of a closed window.
I tried to raise my hand, maybe wave him down, but my arm wouldn’t lift past my waist. The air tasted like copper and spray paint. Every time I blinked, the world went dark for just a little bit longer.
Latham got to me, his hands gripping my shoulders, turning me to face him. He said something urgent—I think it was, “Where’s the suspect?”—but I couldn’t make my mouth work to answer.
Instead, I looked back at the shop. The door was open, the light from inside spilling out like a spilled secret. The flash art on the wall, the color, the life—all still there, but now ruined, slashed with black paint and blood and words I didn’t have the will to read.
I thought of Ransom seeing it for the first time. I thought of his hands, his laugh, the way he’d lean against that counter and pretend not to care if I came by on patrol.
I needed him to know what happened. I needed him to see that I’d tried to keep it safe for him, that I’d bled for it. I tried to say his name, but the syllables caught in my throat.
The sirens got louder, closer, and I saw a flicker of lights bounce off the windows across the street. Latham was pressing something to the side of my head, shouting for a medic. My shirt was soaked, my hands sticky. I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down.
The world tilted sideways, and my face hit the sidewalk, but I barely felt the impact. Everything was getting slow, thick, the sound of the sirens drowning out Latham’s voice.
I thought, clear as a bell: He needs to know. He needs to come back.
The world went black, and the last thing I saw was the door to Inked Rebellion, still open, waiting for someone to walk through.
Come home, I thought.
Come home.
Chapter Thirteen
~ Ransom ~
There’s a point in every long ride where your body forgets you ever had another life. Your hands weld themselves to the grips, knees cinch tight around the tank, and the world tunnels down to a single line of asphalt, pulsing through you like a second heartbeat.
Out here, I was anonymous—a speck in motion, wind-whipped and faceless, no past to outrun because the past had already let me go. It was the only kind of peace I could trust.
