Ryder handles insurance. Finn runs camera angles again. Aurora stays busy, too busy, answering emails at the end of the bar as if productivity can outrun fear.
It can’t.
But I let her try.
I keep seeing the blood on her finger.
I need something permanent that doesn’t shatter.
So I grab my keys and don’t tell anyone where I’m going, just that I need a moment.
Ink & Iron smells of antiseptic and coffee and metal.
It’s loud in a different way than The Hollow. Machines buzzing. Low music. Laughter that feels earned.
Mitchell looks up first from behind the counter. He’s broad, sharp, sleeves of ink disappearing under a black tee.
“Well,” he says, slow grin forming. “If it isn’t the quiet one from The Hollow.”
“I talk,” I reply.
“Rarely,” Timothy calls from the back room. “It’s good to really meet you, man.”
Freddie swivels around in his chair, goggles pushed up on his forehead. “You look like you want to punch something.”
“I already did.”
Mitchell’s eyes narrow slightly. “Oh, dear. Is this drama related to the bar?”
I nod once.
That’s all it takes.
Timothy steps into the main room, wiping his hands on a cloth. He’s calmer than Freddie, but sharper. Watches details.
“What happened?”
“Bottle thrown through the window.”
Freddie’s jaw tightens. “Ballsy.”
“Calculated,” Timothy corrects. “Doesn’t seem like something Wren would do.”
Mitchell studies my face. “Anyone hurt?”
“Aurora cut her finger.”
Freddie’s mouth flattens. “Bad?”
“No.”
Mitchell exhales. “Still.”
Yeah.
Still.
I lean back against the wall.
