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He stands by the rolling door, watching me. I stay where I am, breathing in the familiar air. He hasn’t asked why I needed to come down here. He just followed quietly, kept his distance. That is enough.

He steps forward, hands in jacket pockets. There is no pressure in his stance, just presence. “Car sounds good,” he says.

“Better than me,” I answer. My voice cracks slightly.

He almost smiles. The quiet stretches between us—not awkward, not heavy, just real.

A faint breeze from outside stirs the dust motes. “Stay,” he says after a moment.

I shake my head. “I can’t,” I reply. That one word carries everything he needs to hear: I must do this alone.

“You could stay,” he says quietly. “Just for now.”

I turn to face him fully. His steady gaze meets mine. He isn’t demanding. He’s simply here. “This isn’t about the war,” I say. “It’s about my past.”

He doesn’t flinch. He watches me with those calm eyes. “I understand,” he says.

My hand drifts to the chain at my neck, the friction through my shirt. The metal is warm. It once reminded me of who I used to be. Now it reminds me of everyone I could not save.

He steps closer, brushing his fingers against the chain through the fabric. His touch is gentle. He wants to anchor me, but I feel the need to slip away again.

“I’ll wait,” he says.

“Don’t,” I tell him firmly. It’s not cruelty. It’s honesty. I won’t drag him into the void of waiting. He deserves more than half measures.

I walk to the workbench and lift the backpack I stashed here months ago. The leather straps are cracked, but it will hold. I toss in tools, water, and a clean shirt. I leave the burner phone in the drawer. If I need to vanish again, I will do it cleanly.

Rocco remains by the engine, silent. The car idles with a soft growl, as if ready for one last drive. I fasten the backpack over one shoulder and look at him.

“I love you,” I say. “But I can’t stay tethered. I need to finish this without becoming a ghost again.”

He nods slowly. “I understand.”

“This doesn’t mean I’m leaving you,” I add.

“It means you’re choosing yourself first,” he says. “That’s enough.”

I brush my hand over his as I pass to the side door. We both feel it, but neither holds on.

Then, without warning, the door is flung open.

A man bursts in. He has Ferrano’s ink across his neck, and he aims a pistol at me. My heart races as I drop the bag, spin, and reach for the heavy spanner resting on the bench.

He shouts, “Falcone!”

I swing. The spanner cracks into his forearm with brutal force. Bone snaps. He drops the gun with a startled curse and stumbles backward. Before he can lift another weapon, Rocco moves in behind me.

One shot from his Glock ends it. The bullet penetrates the man’s chest. He crumples to the floor, hands out, eyes wide, twitching once or twice before still.

I stand over the body, wrench still in hand. Blood spreads across the concrete tiles, creeping toward the jack stands and oil pans. I breathe hard, adrenaline surging through tired muscles.

Rocco lowers his pistol and meets my gaze. “You all right?” he asks, voice steady.

“Better than him,” I rasp. My ribs throb from yesterday’s graze, but I barely feel it.

I step over the body and reach for my pack. Rocco moves beside me, not rushing.

The garage reeks of blood, a sharp, metallic tang that mingles with the familiar oil, rust, and dust, sinking into the concrete like it’s always belonged. I sit on the hood of the car I rebuilt, the one that’s my ticket out of here, its cool metal grounding me as my chest heaves, my breathing heavy but starting to steady.