Chapter Seventeen #2
The floor was swept, but you could still see the damage: gouges from metal-toed boots, a big burn mark under the old tattoo chair, and a constellation of cigarette ash near the back where the arson attempt had fizzled out.
The main counter was intact, but every glass display case was gone, replaced by plywood sheets that turned the place into a funeral parlor.
In the center of the floor sat a small pile of what used to be my life: sketchbooks torn in half, a handful of awards snapped and twisted, my favorite coffee mug smashed but swept into a neat little heap, like whoever broke it couldn’t quite bring themselves to sweep it all the way out.
At the far end, the vintage motorcycle parts I’d spent years collecting were crumpled in a tangle—handlebars bent, chrome scraped off, one of the old gas tanks split open like a rotten melon.
The only thing left on the walls was the outline of where the wolf tattoo had hung, now just four nail holes and a rectangle of slightly cleaner paint.
I stared at it for a long time. My feet felt nailed to the floor, my hands useless. Knox didn’t say a word. He just hovered by the door, letting me take it in.
I made it about five steps before the weight in my stomach dragged me to the ground.
I knelt by the pile, picked up the biggest piece of sketchbook I could find.
It was a fragment of the dragon sleeve I’d worked on for a month—the one with the rainbow scales, the one Floyd said looked like it was alive.
The page was shredded at the edges, a smear of ink still wet enough to stain my fingers.
My hands shook. I pressed the page to my face and tried not to breathe, but the smell of burnt paper and cheap cleaning solvent brought everything back in a rush.
I don’t remember making the noise, but suddenly Knox was kneeling next to me, one heavy hand braced on my shoulder.
“It’s just stuff,” he said.
But it wasn’t. It was my past, my reputation, my first and only try at making something beautiful for the world. I tried to say that, but nothing made it past my throat.
Knox let me have it for a minute. Then he did the thing only brothers can do: he picked up the mess with me, hands careful, never judging.
We sifted through it, saving what could be saved—a business card here, a flash print there.
He found the mug handle, held it up like it was a victory, and set it gently aside.
When we finished, there was a box of salvage and a trash bag of everything else. I sat there, knees to my chest, fighting the urge to torch the whole building and walk away.
Behind us, the door creaked open. Floyd stood in the doorway, moving slow, one hand pressed to his ribs. His hair looked freshly washed, like he’d tried to scrub the last week out of his system. His eyes were dark, but not defeated.
He walked over, careful not to step on anything important, and lowered himself next to me. He put a hand on my back and just sat there, not saying a word.
I wanted to be angry at him. I wanted to blame him for needing me, for putting himself in the line of fire, for dragging me into the orbit of this town’s bullshit gravity. But all I could feel was this weird, savage gratitude that he was still here, still alive, still mine.
After a while, he said, “I’m sorry, Ransom. I tried to stop him.” His voice was barely a whisper. I could tell it hurt to talk, maybe because of the injuries, maybe just because it was hard to admit you’d failed.
I shook my head. “You didn’t fail. You did everything you could.”
He looked at me, face open and raw. “I let this happen. I was supposed to protect you.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. “You’re the only thing in this room that made it out alive. That’s enough.”
Knox cleared his throat and stood. “I’m gonna give you two a minute,” he said, and slipped outside. The man was a lot of things, but dumb wasn’t one of them.
For a long time, neither of us moved. We just sat, shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by the ruins.
Finally, I said, “You know what the worst part is?”
He looked at me, ready for anything.
“It’s not that he trashed the place. Or that he tried to kill you. It’s that I’m gonna have to start all over.”
Floyd smiled, just a little. “That’s what you’re good at.”
I grunted. “I was hoping I’d get to be lazy for a year.”
“You can be lazy,” he said. “Just not today.”
We sat there, watching the sunlight creep across the ruined floor.
After a while, he said, “We’ll build it back. Whatever it takes.”
I believed him.
He leaned his head against mine, careful not to bump the stitches, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel hollow. I felt stubborn. I felt mean. I felt ready to burn the whole world down and rebuild it from the ash.
Outside, Main Street kept moving. People walked by, heads down, pretending not to see. Inside, it was just us, surrounded by the things that couldn’t be destroyed.
I picked up the piece of dragon, the one Floyd loved, and pressed it into his hand. “You hold onto this,” I said.
He did.
If the bastard who did this ever came back, I’d end him. No court, no trial, just fire and pain and a justice sharp enough to leave a mark.
But for now, all I could do was start over. With Floyd. With the shop. With whatever we could build, together. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe it never would be. But it was more than I’d ever had before.
And I’d be damned if I let anyone take it away again.