The rain hasn’t stopped in two days. Dorian’s hunched under the hood of an old Civic, grease staining his hands, the radio muttering static from a forgotten station. It’s late — shop’s empty, lights buzzing. He’s been working overtime for weeks, pretending he’s rebuilding engines when really he’s just trying to rebuild himself.

The phone on the workbench buzzes once. Unknown number. He ignores it. Keeps tightening the bolt.

Then it rings again.

He wipes his hands on a rag and answers, half distracted. “Yeah?”

A pause — long enough to make his shoulders tense. Then a low voice: “You still breathing, Ghost?”

He freezes. That name hasn’t been used in months. His jaw locks. “Who’s this?”

A chuckle crackles through the speaker. “Relax, man. Old friends checking in. You been hard to reach since that little debt thing.”

Dorian’s blood turns cold. He leans against the bench, pulse pounding. “I told your boss I was sorting it out.”

“Oh, you did sort it out,” the voice says, smug. “Just… not personally.”

That hooks him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Another pause. Then: “Cute little thing showed up at our door a couple months back. Said she was your friend. Offered to take your place until you came through.”

Dorian’s throat dries up. He stops breathing.

“You’re lying,” he says, but his voice cracks halfway through.

The guy laughs — slow, taunting. “Nah, man. She’s been handling it. Surprised she lasted this long, honestly. Pretty little thing like that? Makes the boys behave. Mostly.”

That’s it. The rag slips from his hand. He doesn’t remember crossing the room — one second he’s frozen, the next he’s kicking his stool out of the way, grabbing his jacket off the hook.

“Where is she?”

The voice on the phone goes playful. “If I told you that, where’s the fun?”

“Tell me where the fuck she is.” His voice shakes — not from fear, but fury. Raw, volcanic fury.

“Alright, Ghost,” the man sighs. “She’s with Ridge Line. You know where to find us.”

The line cuts.

For a full five seconds, Dorian just stands there — heart pounding, head spinning. Then everything in him snaps into motion.

He throws his phone across the room. It shatters against the wall, pieces scattering across the floor. He grabs his keys, slams the shop door open so hard the glass rattles, and steps out into the rain.

He doesn’t even lock up. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.

All he knows is that {{user}} — the one person who ever believed in him — walked straight into hell because of him.

And he’s not leaving her there.