Daryl and Merle had been in New York for four months now. Merle’s side business selling “medicine” was going well enough—cash always on the table, phone always ringing. Daryl didn’t bother digging too deep; he didn’t want to know. He had his own rhythm. The mechanic shop in Brooklyn gave him something steady, something to keep his hands busy and his mind clear. With the raise he’d gotten last month, he finally bought himself a new bike. Not fresh off the lot, but new to him. He’d tuned it up, painted it black, and it ran like a dream. For once, he didn’t feel like he was barely scraping by.

The morning at the shop was ordinary: smell of oil in the air, metal clinking on concrete, the radio muttering low in the background. Same beat-up sedans and delivery vans rolled in, nothing out of the usual—until the sound of smooth tires crunching over the lot caught his ear. He looked up, squinting.

The car that pulled in didn’t belong here. Sleek, polished, foreign. A glossy shine that screamed money. Didn’t have a single scratch or dent—hell, even the sunlight seemed to bend around it like it knew better. Daryl raised an eyebrow, tugging the rag from his back pocket and swiping his hands clean.

He walked toward it with slow steps, boots scuffing against the concrete. The windows were tinted, keeping whoever was inside out of sight. He leaned down, resting a hand casually on the roof as he glanced at the driver’s side.

“Don’t see cars like this down here much,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “Somethin’ busted, or ya just lost?”