Endo (Full Send #2)

Chapter 4

4

LENA

The Other Side - Ruelle

The rhythmic hum of the water filters is oddly soothing as I move through the tanks, clipboard in hand. The ocean rehabilitation center is quiet today, the kind of quiet that seeps into your bones if you let it. I pause at the door leading to the larger tanks, exhaling slowly before pushing it open. The scent of saltwater greets me, mingled with the faint metallic tang of antiseptic.

Outside, the building housing the big tanks looms against the pale morning sky. As I step in, the air is cooler, damp with mist from the filtration systems. A soft splash echoes through the space, drawing my gaze to the newest arrival—a young dolphin, barely out of infancy. His sleek gray body moves slowly, too slowly, through the water. His dorsal fin droops slightly, and there’s a noticeable scar running down his side. It’s the kind of wound that tells a story—one of entanglement and escape.

“Hey there, Finn,” I say softly, the name rolling off my tongue as if I’ve known him for years. He glances my way, one dark, intelligent eye meeting mine. His movements are sluggish, and my chest tightens at the sight. Finn was found tangled in a ghost net off the coast, his body cut and bruised from his desperate struggle to break free. The fishermen who spotted him said he lingered near their boat, as if asking for help. That’s how he ended up here.

I crouch by the edge of the tank, watching him circle slowly, his breaths labored but steady. “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” I murmur, scribbling notes on his progress. He’s been here three days, and the prognosis is cautiously optimistic. The wounds are healing, but his energy levels are low, and his buoyancy is off—a common issue with trauma like his.

The building is quiet except for the steady slosh of water and the hum of the pumps, but my mind doesn’t stay quiet for long. It drifts, unbidden, to memories I’ve tried to keep at bay. Late-night walks along the shore with Cruz, the two of us tracing the edge of the ocean under a canopy of stars. I can still feel the cool sand under my toes, hear the waves crashing in rhythm with his laugh—bright, unrestrained, full of a life he believed would always stretch out ahead of him.

We’d talk for hours on those nights, about racing, about the futures we’d build once we left everything weighing us down behind. His voice comes back to me now, as clear as the water in Finn’s tank, “You’re gonna do big things, Lena. Things that matter.” The words twist in my chest like a blade, sharp and relentless.

I shake the thought off and refocus on Finn. He pauses his slow circling, eyeing me again, and I swear there’s a spark of curiosity there. “You’ve got this,” I whisper. “We both do.” Whether I believe it or not is a different matter entirely.

I blink back the sting in my eyes and refocus on Finn, making adjustments to the water temperature. It’s safer to stay busy. Safer to avoid the weight of grief threatening to pull me under.

“Lena!” Isla’s voice carries from across the room, startling me out of my thoughts. She’s standing by the entrance, her hair pulled into a loose braid, a smile that’s half apology, half excitement on her face.

“Yeah?” I set down my clipboard and walk over, grateful for the distraction.

“There’s a party tonight at the beach,” she says, her tone light and hopeful. “You should come. It’ll be fun—music, drinks, the works.”

I hesitate, the idea of a party feeling like trying to fit into a life that isn’t mine anymore. “I can’t. I’ve got plans.”

Her smile falters but doesn’t completely fade. “You sure? You’ve been... I don’t know, kind of distant lately. It might be good for you.”

“I appreciate it,” I say, forcing a small smile, “but really, I can’t tonight. Maybe another time.”

Isla doesn’t push, just gives me a nod before heading back to her station. The truth is, I do have plans—just not the kind I’m eager to explain. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know who it is. Pulling it out, I see another text from Revel.

Revel: Strip tonight. Be there. I’m gonna blow their fucking minds.

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small grin tugging at my lips. Typical Revel. He’s been hyped about this race all week, texting me nonstop. He’s convinced the Speed Demons will show, that tonight is his shot to prove he’s the one who deserves to join their ranks. It’s all he’s been talking about for weeks—this moment, this race, how he’s going to finally earn his place.

It’s funny, though—this isn’t something Revel’s always wanted. Back when we first got here, he didn’t care about the Demons or their reputation. But since he got back into riding, it’s like something clicked. That world of speed, precision, and control—it’s got its hooks in him now. And honestly? I get it. The way he talks about it, the way his eyes light up when he’s tuning his bike or planning a line through a tricky corner, it’s like he’s found a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing.

And it’s not just talk. Even I know he’s got what it takes.

Revel’s a damn good rider. His balance is flawless, the way he leans into turns like he’s part of the machine. He’s got the instincts for it too—knows when to push, when to hold back, when to let the throttle breathe and when to pin it. I’ve seen him nail lines through technical routes that leave other riders struggling. His reaction time is unreal, and he doesn’t just ride for speed; he rides smart. Always calculating, always a step ahead.

So yeah, even I know he belongs out there. He’s got the skill, the focus, the fire.

But then there’s the other side of it: Revel’s protectiveness. And the Speed Demons? They’re not about that life. They don’t need someone jumping in to play referee every time shit gets messy. And Revel? He’s got a habit of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, especially when it comes to me or anyone he gives a damn about.

The tension between him and the guys is obvious, even if neither side talks about it outright. It’s like they’re circling each other, waiting to see who’s going to blink first. It’s not all-out hostility, but it’s definitely a chest-thumping competition—who’s tougher, who’s more loyal to the code, who gets to call the shots.

Honestly? I don’t get it. And I’m not sure I want to. It’s egos and posturing and a lot of testosterone-fueled bullshit I’ll never understand. But I know Revel, and I know the Demons. They’ll work it out. They have to.

Especially if he becomes one of them.

Because as much as they clash, they respect him. I can see it in the way they watch him when he rides, the way they don’t argue when he talks about bikes or routes. They know he’s good. And Revel? He needs this. Not just the title or the patch, but the sense of belonging it brings.

So I let him talk his big talk about tonight, about the race, about proving himself. I don’t roll my eyes—not too much, anyway—and I keep my sarcasm in check. Because deep down, I want him to get this.

I want him to win.

The thought twists something inside me. Cruz’s face flashes in my mind—the way he used to look on race nights, all swagger and sharp edges, his confidence lighting him up from the inside. Revel isn’t him, not even close, but there are moments—like when he leans too casually against his bike, flashing that reckless grin—that the ache in my chest flares up, sharp and unrelenting.

This morning was one of those moments. He showed up unannounced, as he always does, just before I had to leave for the center. In one hand, he held a paper bag from El Toro Loco , the local dive with the best burritos in town, and in the other, an iced coffee from Dunkin’. He’d gone out of his way to get the extra spicy salsa he knows I love, and for once, he didn’t lecture me about the state of the place.

But the way his eyes lingered on Cruz’s stuff, still exactly where he left it—the helmet on the counter, the jacket draped over the back of a chair—I could see what he wasn’t saying. He didn’t look surprised. It’s like he knows I haven’t touched a thing, like he understands without me having to explain that moving anything would feel like erasing Cruz, like losing him all over again.

Revel didn’t push, just handed me the bag with a lopsided grin and sprawled out on the couch while I ate. “Big night tonight,” he’d said around a mouthful of his own breakfast, eyes glinting with that familiar, boundless energy.

“Yeah,” I’d replied, my voice too even, too calm.

Now, staring at his text, I sigh, thumb hovering over the keyboard. It’s impossible to stay mad at him for long. He has this way of pulling me out of my head, whether I want him to or not.

Be there. Don’t make me drag you out.

That’s Revel, always demanding, always relentless. And despite everything, some part of me knows I’ll show up.

By the time I pull up to the strip on Cruz’s bike—a sleek ZX10R, still in perfect condition despite the dust it’s been gathering—I feel the buzz of anticipation crackling in the air. Revel’s bike, a custom Yamaha R1 with midnight-blue accents, gleams under the streetlights. He’s already here, surrounded by a group of riders hyping him up.

“There she is!” Revel calls out, his grin wide and infectious. “About fucking time.”

I park the ZX10 and dismount, pulling off my helmet. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule,” I tease, but my voice feels lighter around him. It always does.

Revel’s been a constant in my life for as long as I can remember. We grew up together, him always a step ahead, the protective older brother I never had. Even when life pulled us in different directions, he made sure to keep me in his orbit. After Cruz... he stepped up even more, checking in, making sure I wasn’t completely lost.

“You ready to watch me blow some minds?” he says, his tone dripping with confidence.

“Always,” I reply, but there’s a flicker of unease I can’t shake. He’s been chasing this moment for months, training, pushing himself harder than I think he should. I know he wants this, but watching him step into the world that took Cruz feels like watching history threaten to repeat itself.

The races start, engines roaring as bikes blur down the strip, the crowd alive with energy. I can’t deny the rush I feel, the way the air vibrates with adrenaline. For a moment, it’s easy to forget the ache in my chest, to lose myself in the thrill of it all. But then the memories creep back—Cruz’s laughter, the way he’d grip the throttle like it was an extension of himself, the way he made racing look effortless.

Revel finishes his race in second place, his expression a mix of pride and determination. He jogs over to me, helmet in hand, his eyes shining. “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” I echo, though my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “They didn’t show, did they?”

He shakes his head. “Not tonight. But they will. And when they do, I’ll be ready.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. As much as I want this for him, the thought of him joining the Demons, of him stepping into Cruz’s place, feels like a wound that hasn’t healed. I know it’s not fair. Revel isn’t replacing Cruz.

No one could. But it doesn’t stop the guilt from clawing at me.

When I get back to my apartment, the faint rumble of traffic drifts through the thin walls, muffled and distant but constant, like the city itself is restless. From next door, Mrs. Abernathy’s TV blares, the volume cranked up so high I can make out the dramatic swell of some soap opera soundtrack. She’s always watching those shows, losing herself in someone else’s drama. Sometimes I envy her for it—her ability to escape so easily.

The noise fills the silence of my apartment, but it doesn’t touch the emptiness inside me. If anything, it makes it worse.

I kick off my shoes and toss my keys onto the counter, the clink too sharp in the stillness. My chest feels tight as I move to the kitchen, flicking on the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights.

I set the kettle on the stove and rummage through the tea drawer, finally settling on chamomile. It’s not like it’ll actually help me sleep, but it’s something to do, something to keep my hands busy. While the water heats, I slip into my room and change into one of Cruz’s old T-shirts. It hangs loose on me, the fabric worn soft from years of use. The logo for some surf shop he loved is faded on the front, the edges fraying at the seams. I pair it with boy shorts, my usual at-home uniform, though tonight it feels like armor. His shirt still smells faintly like him, or maybe that’s just my memory playing tricks.

Back in the kitchen, the kettle whistles. I pour the steaming water over the tea bag in my favorite mug, the one Cruz got me as a joke—it’s shaped like a turtle, awkward and adorable. The tea steeps as I move to the small tank in the corner of the living room, kneeling to feed the fish. The tiny blue beta swims lazily to the surface, nibbling at the flakes I sprinkle in. “Hey, Blue,” I murmur. “At least you’re still kicking, huh?”

The helmet catches my eye from the corner of the table. I set my mug down and approach it slowly, as if it might shatter under my gaze. “Van Doren” is scrawled across the side in bold, neon green letters, the paint still vivid despite the scuffs and scratches marring its surface. The deep dents along the top and sides are a brutal reminder of what it endured—and what Cruz didn’t. This was the helmet he was wearing that day, the one he called his lucky charm.

I reach out, my fingers trembling as they trace over the grooves left by the crash. The once-smooth surface is now a patchwork of jagged edges and splintered paint, the damage a haunting echo of that moment. My chest tightens with every second I hold it, the weight of it pulling me under.

The memories flood in—his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he grinned, the late-night rides we used to take with the wind whipping around us and the whole world melting away. He swore this helmet made him faster, sharper like nothing could touch him. But something did. Something cruel and unstoppable, and now all I have left is this battered piece of him.

Tears sting my eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. I swipe at them angrily, hating how they make me feel so fucking weak. But it’s not weakness. I know that.

It’s love. It’s loss.

It’s missing him so much it feels like someone reached inside me and tore out a part of my soul.

Revel’s words from earlier echo in my mind the way he said, “They didn’t show, but they will.” A part of me is glad the Speed Demons weren’t at the strip tonight. Seeing them again would’ve been too much. Too raw. But another part of me aches for them. Reign, Talon, Sayshen, Draygon, Wolfe, Thorne—they were my family once, too, before everything fell apart. Before being around them felt like holding a match to my grief and waiting for the explosion.

I clutch the helmet tightly as I sink onto the couch. The tea sits untouched on the table, forgotten. The helmet gleams under the faint light, a painful reminder of everything I’ve lost and everything I’m still holding onto. My thumb brushes over the letters on the side, my voice breaking the silence as I whisper into the void.

“I miss you so much, babe.” The words hang in the air, heavy and unanswered.