Chapter 23 #2
It’s just survival.
Or at least our version of soft.
The kind that doesn’t promise healing. Just a heartbeat. A breath. A body next to yours while the rest of the world burns.
And if they try to take any more from us?
They better bring fire.
Because we’re not falling again without setting the whole goddamn place on fire.
The bed’s cold when I wake up the next morning.
Riot’s already up, moving around the room in slow, deliberate steps.
His movements are stiff, but clean. His shirt hangs half on, twisted around his torso as he adjusts the sling strap across his shoulder.
There’s a mug of something dark and bitter-smelling on the windowsill—coffee, probably.
Or Luca’s version of it, which is one missed fuse away from transmission fluid.
I groan and sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. My limbs ache. My throat’s dry. My brain feels like it’s been wrapped in barbed wire and set on low simmer.
“You didn’t sleep,” I mutter.
Riot shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t need to.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. You and the reaper, best fucking friends.”
He doesn’t argue, just grabs the mug, takes a slow sip, and leans against the wall like the weight of everything hasn’t crushed him yet.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for the second mug waiting on the crate beside his.
It’s still warm. Barely. But it’s the closest thing to comfort I’ve had in days, so I take a long drink and let the bitterness burn the back of my throat.
He’s got one arm through his shirt but hasn’t pulled it all the way on. His back is bare, streaked with dried sweat and tension, the bandage at his ribs taped tight. He’s cleaned up since yesterday, but he still looks like he lost something that mattered. Because he did.
I glance down at myself, frowning at the state of the clothes I pulled from the donation bin. The combat leggings are okay, minus the scorch hole near the ankle. But the cropped hoodie is faded, stretched, and scrawled across the front in cracked white block letters is:
PROPERTY OF SHAW
I don’t know who Shaw is, but I hope they were hot.
Or at least had decent taste in music. The hem’s torn and one sleeve’s got a grease handprint on it that I’m definitely not responsible for.
I pull my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head using an old rubber band I found stuck to the corner of Riot’s toolbox.
It’s frayed, barely elastic, but it holds.
“Luca says the bike’s still fucked,” Riot says, voice low and rough.
I glance over at him. “Of course it is.”
“He’s got it stripped on the lift. Frame’s warped. Coil’s fried. Needs parts. He’s sending us to the Yard.”
The Yard.
I’ve heard the others talk about it like it’s some kind of post-apocalyptic scrapyard—where dead bikes go to rot and dreamers go to find ghosts. No lights. No guards. Just the bones of old machines waiting to be picked clean.
“Of course we’re going shopping in a biker graveyard,” I mutter, grabbing the protein bar off the nightstand and tearing into it with zero enthusiasm. “Romantic.”
Riot smirks, but it’s faint. “Wear something nice.”
I snort, mouth full of dust and disappointment. “This is me dressed up. Try not to come in your pants.”
His gaze flicks over me once, slow, deliberate, and way too amused for someone still stitched together with spite and surgical thread.
“No promises.”
We finish our sorry excuse for breakfast, toss back what’s left of the coffee, and pull on our jackets. Mine’s got more holes than armor. His still reeks of sweat and dirt and dried blood, but at least it fits like a second skin.
We head out into the gray.
The Yard sits on the outskirts of the district, past the bones of what used to be a rail line and a tunnel system that looks like it hasn’t breathed in decades. The chain-link fence creaks as we push it open, and the sign hanging above it reads in flaking paint:
THE LAST LAP
Someone’s spray-painted over it in blood-red letters:
WHERE BIKES GO TO DIE
Inside, the world turns to rust and silence. Rows of twisted frames tower like tombstones. Burnt-out engines. Tanks warped from heat. The ground’s black with oil, streaked with old fuel and rain. Neon decals flicker faintly from under layers of grime and ash.
Riot walks ahead of me, sharp-eyed and focused, like grief hasn’t dulled his edge one bit. If anything, he looks more lethal with the weight of it.
“Luca said we need a new rear coil housing, two front forks, and a full mod rail,” he mutters.
“So… everything except the soul.”
“Basically.”
We split up, moving through the wreckage.
I trail my fingers over the edge of a split gas tank—chrome, bent in half, with the name MORGAN etched into the side.
The seat’s still stained with blood. The number plate hangs by a single screw.
I wonder who they were. If they made it further than I will.
If someone else stood where I’m standing now, wondering the same thing.
I round a corner and spot something buried beneath a half-ripped tarp. The edge flaps in the wind, revealing a matte black frame beneath it. Dusty. Neglected. But not forgotten.
It doesn’t feel like junk.
It feels like it’s waiting.
I grab the tarp and yank it off in one go. Beneath the grime, the paint is still bold—graffiti-style letters slashed across the body in jagged white:
Speed Demons.
Underneath it, in smaller yellow, it says ‘Racing.’ A glowing green demon is threaded through the lettering—not ugly or snarling, but cocky.
Smug. Its horns curve forward. Its tail wraps through the D like it owns the name.
Like it put it there. Below the logo, barely visible through the scratches, is a neon #39 painted in the same wild slant.
The numbers tilt forward, like they were always meant to be faster than everyone else.
It shouldn’t make me grin.
But it does.
“Riot,” I call out, not taking my eyes off the panel. “Think I found something.”
He makes his way over, wiping his hands on a rag that’s more grease than fabric at this point. He crouches beside me, gives the bike a once-over, then runs his hand down the frame. He wipes at the coil and nods.
“Forks are solid. Rear housing’s clean. Coil’s intact.” A pause. “Shit. This is a score.”
“I know,” I say, but my eyes are still on the demon. “Speed Demons, huh?”
“You don’t remember them?” he asks, standing and stretching his back.
I shake my head. “No. But I like their vibe.”
Riot crouches beside me, fingers trailing along the scuffed paint. “They were a race team. Stationed out of Tampa Bay. A few miles from here, back before the Syndicate carved this place into districts.”
I glance at him. “You knew them?”
He nods, slow. “Not personally. But I saw them race. Twice, maybe three times. I was a kid, barely old enough to sneak out. They were fast. Vicious. Crowd went wild every time they hit the line.”
I look back at the frame. The demon’s still grinning through the grime, all horns and attitude. “What happened to them?”
“World fell apart,” he mutters. “Same thing that happened to everyone else.”
The silence between us stretches, not heavy but reverent.
I nod once. “Well... their parts are about to get a second shot.”
Riot smirks faintly, eyes on the panel. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
We’ve got everything we came for. The crate’s packed—coil housing, front forks, mod cables, and whatever else Luca scribbled down in his barely-legible mess of a list. Riot lifts it with a grunt, the tension pulling through his shoulder like a wire strung too tight. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
I should walk out with him.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
The little green demon still grins at me from the side panel. Its teeth chipped, paint dulled, but that smirk? Untouched. Like it’s still got something to prove, even after everything else has rusted away.
I crouch, fingers curling around the metal. It’s cosmetic, just bodywork. But something in me wants it anyway. Not because it’s useful but because it feels like it matters. Like this bike went down swinging and left its ghost behind for someone to carry.
I start working the bolts loose, ignoring the tight pull in my knees. The wind kicks dust around my boots, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend the world hasn’t been gutted and rebuilt by fire.
Riot notices I’m not with him and doubles back, the weight of the crate settling against the dirt as he sets it down. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches while I pull the panel free and stand with it braced against my hip.
“You done stealing junk?” he asks, voice low.
“It’s not junk,” I murmur, eyes still on the demon. “It deserves better.”
His gaze flicks to the panel, then back to me. “You say that like it’s not just a piece of cracked plastic.”
I shrug. “Guess I’ve got a thing for broken things with attitude.”
“You looking in a mirror or talking about me now?” he mutters, stepping closer.
My lips twitch, but I don’t answer. Not with words.
He moves in until the space between us vanishes, his eyes on mine, unreadable but full of something that burns just below the surface. His hand lifts, rough fingers brushing my jaw, then sliding up until they close around my throat. Not tight, just there. Solid. Claiming.
My breath catches, but I don’t stop him.
His grip tightens just enough to make me feel it. Then he yanks me forward and kisses me like the world hasn’t ended, like it might be ending right now and he’s trying to swallow the last of it from my mouth.
I kiss him back with the demon panel still clutched in one hand, my other fisting the front of his shirt like I need something to hold onto that won’t vanish when I blink.
I think about the kids. The ones who used to ride for teams like this. The ones who used to dream about speed and noise and something better than this hellhole of a world. I wonder if they died with hope in their chest or if it burned out before the crash.
I think about Riot, and how he doesn’t talk about hope. How he just moves. Just protects. Just bleeds.
I think about how I’ve never been anyone’s soft, and he’s never been anyone’s safe, but somehow we keep choosing each other anyway.
When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes the edge of my jaw. His eyes flick down to the panel still pinned between us.
“You gonna bolt that thing on the bike?” he asks.
“Damn right I am.”
He smirks. “It’s ugly.”
“So are you,” I say, already walking past him.
But I don’t let go of it. And he doesn’t stop me. Because this might be grief. Might be survival. Might be something else entirely. But whatever it is?
It’s ours.