The engine purred back to life, a soft rumble echoing in the quiet garage as Rafael stepped back, wiping his hands on an old rag. He was tall—dangerously tall—with the kind of presence that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it. Tattoos snaked up his neck and down his entire right arm like inked shadows, telling silent stories no one dared to ask about. The black T-shirt clung to his well-sculpted frame, while his brown cargo pants bore smudges of grease and grit. A single cross earring swung from his left ear, catching the dim light like a warning sign rather than jewelry. With shoulder-length dark hair tousled in a careless mess, he looked less like a mechanic and more like someone you'd see leaning against a getaway car in a mafia flick—the kind of man whose silence was louder than most people's screams.
"You're good to go now," Rafael said, his voice low, gravelly, and maddeningly calm. He didn't look at the girl when he spoke—just flicked his gaze across the hood like he was dismissing a completed task, not speaking to a person.
The girl, Sasha, let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, her relief pouring out in a flurry of gratitude. "Thank you so much, Rafael. I really needed it fixed today. If my dad found out I crashed his car... he'd cut my allowance, and probably my head."
She laughed nervously, her eyes never leaving his face, cheeks flushed with a tint that betrayed more than just embarrassment. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at him—hopeful, almost bold. "By the way... are you free after this? Maybe we could grab lunch? My treat. You know... as a thank-you."
Rafael didn't answer right away. He turned slightly, one brow arching just enough to speak volumes. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, not really. More like the ghost of one. Controlled. Measured. Dangerous.
"Tempting," he said, his tone polite—too polite. "But not today."
Sasha blinked, visibly thrown off by the refusal. "Oh… um, okay."
"I've got to pick up a little brat," he added casually, exhaling through his nose like it irritated him just saying it. "Kid's been getting cocky lately. Needs a reminder."
The way he said reminder made her shift on her feet, unsure whether to laugh or shiver.
"Next time, then?" she asked, forcing a smile.
"Sure," he said flatly, turning his back before the question had fully left her lips.
Sasha hesitated, then quietly slid into her car. The engine started, and soon her vehicle disappeared down the road, swallowed by the fading daylight.
Rafael watched until her car was nothing but a ghost in the distance. Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, held it between his lips, and struck the lighter in a single, fluid motion. The flame flared, and the end of the cigarette glowed to life. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke curl out slowly between his lips like exhaling a burden. His other hand rose to his head, fingers raking through his messy hair as he tilted his head back and stared at the sky, brows furrowed.
"Man," he muttered, voice low and edged with something darker, "what a boring day."
"RAFAEL!"
The shout tore through the stillness, sharp and familiar. Rafael didn't flinch—he never did—but his head tilted up, cigarette balanced between his fingers as he cast a glance toward the house across the narrow street, just above the garage.
There she was. Framed in the second-story window like some tired sentinel, stood a woman in her fifties with streaks of gray running through her tied-back hair. She wore no makeup, no smile—just years of worry etched into the corners of her eyes. A faded apron clung to her like a second skin, flour-dusted and worn thin from decades of routine.
"How many times have I told you to quit that smoking habit of yours?" she barked, voice rising with the strain of both concern and resignation.
Rafael said nothing. He took another slow drag, eyes half-lidded, letting the smoke roll past his lips as if her words were just more dust in the air. He looked up at her—not in defiance, not in guilt. Just silence. Cold, practiced silence.
The woman sighed, her expression softening with maternal defeat. "At least don't forget to pick up your sister, alright?"
There was something in her voice now. Not irritation. Not command. Just weariness. A kind of ache that came from knowing you couldn't protect your children from the world—or from themselves. She didn't blame him. Not really. It was the world that had broken him, shaped him, forged him into the steel-hearted man he had become.
"I was gonna do just that, Mom," Rafael said at last, lips curving into a smile—but it was faint, like smoke dissipating in the wind. Not warm. Not reassuring. Just something he knew she needed to hear.
She didn't reply. The window creaked shut with a soft clack, and she was gone.
Rafael took one last pull from the cigarette, flicked the ember to the ground, and crushed it under his boot. The street was quiet again, but the weight in the air never really left.
He reached for his keys.
The keys felt heavier in his palm than they should have. Rafael twirled them once around his finger before closing his fist, the cold metal biting into his skin like a subtle reminder—this life still had sharp edges.
He stepped off the curb and made his way toward the garage, boots thudding softly against the cracked pavement. His eyes scanned the quiet neighborhood—Blackridge Hollow, a forgotten town tucked deep in upstate New York, far from where people remembered to look. Two-story homes lined the street, modest and aged, their wooden siding whispering stories of families who had come here to escape the noise, the mess, the past.
Just like they had.
Five years ago, they had packed up what little they couldn't leave behind and disappeared into this nowhere town. His mother, a woman who had once known sharp heels and sharp words, now wore slippers and spoke in sighs. She played the role of a quiet homemaker, the kind who grew herbs on windowsills and pretended she didn't know the weight her son carried in his shoulders.
His sister, now a senior in high school, had grown up faster than she should have. There were shadows under her eyes some mornings—shadows that had nothing to do with sleep.
And Rafael... he had opened the garage three years back. Not because he needed the money—they still had enough stashed in the right places—but because idle hands turned into dangerous ones. The garage gave him something to fix, something to control.
He reached it now, pausing before the steel shutter. His hand rose slowly, fingers brushing over the metal like he was waking an old friend. Then, with one swift pull, he yanked the shutter up in a single motion.
Dust floated in the air like ash.
Inside, under the dim lights, stood a 1966 Plymouth Barracuda. Scraped? No. Reborn. Piece by piece, Rafael had rebuilt it over the years, pouring silence and memory into its frame. Next to it rested his other prize—a 1968 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500, coated in midnight black and menace. It sat like a predator waiting to be let loose.
But Rafael didn't even glance at the Mustang.
He stepped toward the Barracuda, reaching out. His fingers traced the curves of the hood with a reverence rarely seen in him—a quiet kind of mourning wrapped in steel and grease.
"It's been five years, Dad," he murmured, voice flat, almost detached.
But beneath the calm... was grief. Unspoken. Undeniable. Like a scar hidden under a glove.
The Barracuda didn't respond. It never would. But it didn't need to. Rafael's voice hung in the air for a moment longer before dissolving into silence.
He stood there a second more.
Rafael's gaze fell to his outstretched hand—no, not the hand itself, but the ink that coiled across it. The crown of a king etched into his skin stood bold and black against the dim garage light. His fingers twitched slightly as he stared at it, and memory, unwanted but relentless, crept in.
The thunder.
The tattoo parlor.
His father's scream.
He could still hear it—that desperate, guttural cry—as the flames devoured the car from the inside. The same Barracuda he had rebuilt now stood quiet before him like a tombstone carved in steel. That rainy night five years ago never left him. It lived in his bones, in his silence, in the ink on his flesh.
Rafael clenched his fist, so tightly the skin over his knuckles turned pale, veins rising like tension beneath the surface. But after a breath—sharp and controlled—he released it, letting his hand fall to his side.
He turned.
The Mustang.
It wasn't just a car—it was legacy. A gift from his grandfather on his eighteenth birthday. The old man had said nothing when he handed over the keys, just nodded like he was passing on a weapon. And that's what it had become.
Rafael stepped toward it, placing a palm against the door. His fingers trailed slowly along its frame. The moment he opened it, the smell hit him.
Leather.
Cigarette smoke.
And something metallic—like blood and engine oil had shared a memory here.
Nostalgia punched him in the chest.
He slid into the seat, slipped the key in, and twisted.
VROOOMMM.
The engine roared to life like a beast finally let loose. He revved it again. Once. Twice. A third time—each growl louder than the last, like war drums waking the street. And then, with a sharp movement, he dropped the clutch.
The Mustang shot forward.
Tires screeched.
Smoke curled.
He tore out of the garage, hitting the corner with a brutal left drift. The back of the car kicked out, but he controlled it with clinical precision. It wasn't just speed—it was anger wearing the face of elegance.
Behind him, on the second floor of the house, his mother stood by the window. Her hand clutched near her heart, eyes following the shrinking blur of her son disappearing into the world she had tried to hide him from.
"Rafael…" she whispered, voice cracking with a sorrow so deep it could shatter stone. Her lips trembled. Her shoulders hunched. That one word carried the weight of five years of grief, fear, and helpless love.
Beside her, the landline receiver dangled from her other hand, the voice on the other end still speaking—muffled, distant.
"No," she said suddenly, breath catching in her chest, her voice low but firm. "I will never let him return to that world. Ever again."
She didn't wait for a reply.
With a trembling finger, she ended the call.
The dial tone rang out in the silence, but the truth was louder.
He was already on his way back.