“How often do you come here?” I ask as Jax slows the bike.
His eyes are on the street, scanning for trouble. “Not as often as I should.”
Tar City never bothered pretending to be safe in this district. The Cut has only gotten worse since we walked these streets together for the first time all those years ago.
The buildings around us are barely standing, their facades stained with decades of grime and graffiti. Some windows are boarded up or painted black, while others are just empty holes, dark and open to the street.
Everyone knows better than to linger here after dark. It’s a strange feeling—to be near a man this powerful in a place like this. I’m not afraid of the people right now. I’m afraid of what Jax might do if someone looks at us wrong, if someone pushes, if someone reminds him of the fight he hasn’t come down from yet. I can feel it on him,his power is barely leashed.
The pawn shop looks older too. The neon sign is long gone, all that’s left is a rusted metal awning and a faded stencil on the glass that once said PAWN and now just says PA. I spot our reflection in the window. We look like we crawled out of a graveyard. Not that Tar City has one—nobody gets buried here.Superstition says the tar underground will steal your soul if you do. People get cremated instead. Jax is shirtless, his jeans torn, his torso a canvas of drying blood and fading bruises. My own shirt is ripped, my face stings, and I can feel the grit of the alley ground in my skin. I’m exhausted in a way that goes deeper than muscle, an adrenaline crash mixed with the emotional fallout of what I saw him do back there—what he can do.
“Stay close,” he orders as we move toward the back alley. We cross fast, and he raps his knuckles against the steel door in a specific rhythm—three strong knocks, a pause, two slower ones, and then one final tap.
The door opens just enough to reveal a sliver of yellow light and a familiar, irritated voice. “The fuck happened?”
I don’t even hesitate. I slip inside and throw my arms around him. “It’s good to see you too, O,” I say, squeezing hard.
He grunts, stiff and annoyed, then—after a second—his arm comes up and pats my back once.
Jax rolls his eyes and heads straight for the fridge like it’s his place.
“Still treating my shop like a goddamn pantry,” O snaps.
“Still locking the door like you’re expecting the apocalypse,” Jax shoots back.
“Because I am,” O grunts. “And one of these days, you’re gonna be the reason it shows up early.”
Jax cracks a beer, then an energy drink.
O stares at him like he’s watching a slow-motion crime.
“Pitfire,” he says. “You trying to kill yourself or just insult me personally?”
Jax takes a long pull from the beer, then the energy drink, and finally looks at him. “We need your help.”
O’s expression changes. “The fuck you do now? Don’t tell me you need money. Again.”
Jax exhales through his nose and waves him off. “Bar’s doing great.”
O snorts. “Of course it is. City goes to hell, people drink like hell.”
“And I paid you back,” Jax says flatly. “Every cent you lent me. So quit it.”
“Yeah,” O complains. “Minus the interest.”
Jax shoots him a look. “I told you that’s not how favors work.”
O crosses his arms. “So. If this isn’t about money, what did you break?”
Jax doesn’t answer right away. He takes another drink instead.
I step in. “Did you see the… thing?” I ask.
Both of them look at me.
“The thing?” O repeats. “You mean the—” He stops himself.
Jax glances at me, then back at O. “You see it or not?”
