The bitter aftertaste of that stolen kiss still clung to my lips as I turned the key. Automatic. Resigned.

  Why was I still breathing?

  Why did this hunk of metal called a Chevette still exist?

  And that kiss… Had that split-second of stupid rebellion been worth it? Just dry lips crashing against hers—surprisingly soft, but lifeless.

  The engine coughed, a sickly metallic rattle, then died.

  I tried again.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  The starter motor screeched for a second before falling silent.

  Fucking hell.

  I glanced at Marco. He stood motionless, but the tension in his jawline betrayed him. Behind him, Lilia and Erik stared down the road, silhouetted against the creeping dawn.

  One last try.

  Come on, come on… I punched the dashboard, cold sweat mixing with dried blood on my forehead.

  Then—a choked roar. A metallic groan from the Chevvie’s guts. The chassis shuddered like a dying animal. The engine sputtered to life.

  Good. I could do this. Survive a little longer. Though deep down, I wondered:

  How long till my luck runs out, like it did with Clara?

  The thought hit like a hammer—the silence between the engine’s growl and my frantic heartbeat screaming that luck always has limits… and mine was teetering on the edge.

  I shifted into first. The Chevvie crawled forward like a wounded elder, every bolt protesting in unison with my battered body. Morning wind slapped my face through the gaping windshield hole. This wasn’t some convertible joyride—it felt raw, exposed, like my old scooter but without the freedom.

  My impression of Marco kept shifting. Brute. Monster. Exhibitionist… Now, guardian angel. He’d just saved my life, skyrocketing him to #1 on my “Criminals I’d Grab a Beer With” list. Hell, he’d even helped stanch the bleeding from my ear.

  Stockholm syndrome, I reminded myself.

  We crawled down roads barely worthy of the name, kicking up dust clouds. Marco barked monosyllabic directions: “Left here.” “Straight.” The sun climbed lazily, painting the sky in oranges and purples that didn’t give a damn about our misery.

  Then—as if the universe wanted to break the ice (and my neck)—my phone rang. The Scooby-Doo theme song blared from my pocket, a childhood relic Dad and I used to jam to.

  Shit. My phone. I’d forgotten it entirely.

  Marco held out a blood-crusted hand, eyebrow raised.

  “Wrong number,” I lied.

  He didn’t budge.

  With a sigh, I handed it over. Dad’s caller ID glared up. Without a word, Marco chucked it out the window.

  My car. My job. My phone. My life. These assholes were torching everything I’d ever cared about.

  ***

  The landscape blurred—dead brush and skeletal trees parading past my swollen eyes. Then my stomach joined the pity party with a cavernous growl.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Guess nobody packed breakfast,” I muttered, the joke dying as I remembered my company: a naked giant, a psychopath with a gun, and a whining pretty-boy.

  Idiot. I slumped lower, but my traitorous gut roared again.

  A new smell cut through the dust—salt, fish, dampness.

  The sea.

  Through the haze, cranes and shipping containers took shape.

  Of course… a port.

  Movement rustled behind me. Lilia leaned forward, handing Marco a glowing rectangle—a GPS? He frowned at it. “Next right. Dock seven. Section D—blue containers.”

  We entered a maze of cracked asphalt, boarded-up warehouses, and rusted containers. The air thickened with diesel, stagnant water, and rotting fish.

  We stopped before faded blue containers spray-painted with a crooked D. The Chevvie wheezed its last breath. Silence fell, heavy and expectant. I considered running, screaming—anything—but exhaustion anchored me to the seat.

  “Everyone freeze,” Marco rumbled.

  Men emerged from the shadows—black tactical gear, assault rifles. Five… six? They surrounded the car, muzzles trained on us.

  “Marco?” A gravelly voice.

  Marco thrust his arm out the window. “Reporting for duty, Captain.”

  The speaker lowered his rifle—a bear of a man with salt-and-pepper beard and mirrored sunglasses. His men kept aiming. The Captain scanned Erik, Lilia, then me. His lip curled.

  “Wounded guy, hot chick, and… What the hell happened to this one?” He chin-nodded at me. My left eye pulsed like a rotten plum.

  “Rough day,” Marco deadpanned, amused.

  The Captain whistled, circling the bullet-riddled, windshield-less Chevvie. “Christ, I’ve seen junkyard wrecks in better shape.” He opened Marco’s door.

  Marco stepped out—naked, blood-smeared, unconcerned. The Captain didn’t flinch. They hugged—a bone-crunching clasp of old warriors. I almost laughed at Marco’s junk swaying freely, but fear strangled it.

  “Let’s go,” said the Captain, giving Marco a firm pat on the back. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Ignisterra?” Marco blurted, his tone a mix of amusement and challenge.

  The Captain’s jaw tightened at the word, like he’d tasted something foul.

  “Ignisterra,” he confirmed, his voice steady and resolute.

  The weight of that word hung in the air, as if both of them shared knowledge I wasn’t privy to. Something that, for some inexplicable reason, made me wish I hadn’t heard it at all.

  Then, turning to his men, the Captain raised his voice with authority:

  “Someone, please get my friend a pair of pants!”

  I heard the click of the back door opening and saw Lilia helping Erik out. The pretty boy groaned and limped visibly, leaning heavily on her with every step.

  The sound of their footsteps faded into the distance, blending with the heavy thud of the armed men’s boots against the asphalt. Terrorists? Mercenaries? What the hell were they, really?

  The question lingered in the air, unanswered, as unsettling as the chaos surrounding us.

  I stayed glued to the wheel, clutching it like a lifeline. Marco hoisted Erik over his shoulder, freeing Lilia. She turned to me, face blank.

  “Out.”

  My heart lurched. Was this it?

  I exited, moving like a man walking to the gallows. This time, I remembered the seatbelt. Marco watched. Lilia raised her gun, aiming at my gut.

  “Lilia—” Marco warned.

  She smiled—cold, sterile. “We don’t need him anymore.”

  The gunshot wasn’t a graze this time.

  White-hot agony punched through my abdomen—liquid fire spreading, stealing my breath. I crumpled, asphalt scraping my cheek, the stink of oil and saltwater flooding my nose. The gray sky spiraled above, indifferent.

  Why not my head? Part of me wanted to laugh.

  Blood bubbled at my lips, metallic and warm, as the world tilted sideways.

  “I told you,” Lilia said, bored, already walking away.

  The mercs didn’t blink. Marco looked back once—was that pity in his eyes, or dawn’s reflection?

  He hesitated—just a flicker in his stance—before adjusted Erik on his shoulder, turning away.

  Cold seeped from the warm pool beneath me, sharper than the morning wind.

  Bootsteps approached. A merc aimed his rifle at my head.

  The shot came—dry, final.

  Then I died.