I shouldn’t have kissed her.
I should have turned away. Walked out. Left her untouched, unmarked.
But now that I’ve had a taste, now that I know the way she softens under my hands, the way she looks at me like she sees something worth saving, I know the truth.
I will never be able to step away from her.
I won’t forget her. I won’t release her.
I want her.
All of her
She’s already mine!
I get ready on instinct.
There’s no rush, no hesitation, just muscle memory taking over while my mind stays somewhere darker. Every movement is precise, stripped of thought or emotion. Black boots pulled on and laced tight. Dark jeans. A worn t-shirt that still smells faintly of smoke and metal. The hooded jacket last, armour disguised as fabric.
I don’t look in the mirror.
I don’t need to.
The man staring back would look too much like the one who just woke up screaming.
The garage yawns open beneath me, cold and quiet, concrete swallowing the sound of my footsteps. I swing my leg over the bike and settle into the familiar weight of it, hands wrapping around the grips like they were made for me alone.
The engine roars to life.
Good.
The vibration rattles through my bones, drowning out lingering echoes of beeping, of blood, of my brother’s voice whisperingI love youlike a curse I can’t outrun.
I pull out into the night, throttle twisting beneath my palm.
I need the wind. The speed. The violence of motion.
I need my head clear before I reach the warehouse, before blood replaces memory and purpose smothers grief.
The road stretches out in front of me, dark and empty.
And I disappear into it.
The ride to the warehouse is fast.
Quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles into my bones and smooths the rough edges just enough to keep me functional. The road blurs beneath me, the city thinning out until it’s nothing but dark stretches of asphalt and the steady roar of the engine beneath my hands. By the time the warehouse looms into view, my breathing has evened out, my pulse slowing to something cold and deliberate.
A faint light glows behind one of the shattered windows.
Good.
They’re already here.
I guide the bike through one of the open roller doors and cut the engine. Silence rushes in, thick and heavy, broken only by distant voices echoing somewhere deeper inside the building. The place smells like dust, oil, and old violence, familiar. Comforting, in its own twisted way.
I follow the sound.
