Page 161 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

The storage unit door screeches metal against metal as I roll it up, afternoon sunlight cutting through dust that hangs like ghosts in the air. Unit 47. Thirteen years of monthly payments. Thirteen years of avoiding this place.

Inside, the tarp-covered shape waits exactly where I left it, untouched by time. I step forward, my hands steady now—strange how they're not shaking anymore when everything else in my world feels unstable.

Just pull it off. Quick.

One motion and the tarp slides away.

The Honda CRF450R gleams like it's been waiting for me. Red and white plastic still pristine, chrome still reflecting light. Tommy's joke sticker catches my eye immediately: "Gravity's Optional" in faded blue letters across the tank.

Physics is for quitters, bro.

I can almost hear his voice. Tommy slapping that sticker on at the track, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his own bike. We were sixteen and thought we owned the world, thought deathwas something that happened to other people, older people, careful people.

We were never careful.

My fingers brush the handlebars and my knees just... give out. I'm kneeling beside the bike like it's a grave, which maybe it is. The concrete floor is cold through my jeans but I can't move, can't think past the image of blood on white plastic, Tommy's helmet split down the middle.

"I'm sorry." The words come out broken. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Should have been me.

The apology doesn't help. Nothing helps. This isn't grief anymore—grief would be easier. This is the emptiness that comes after you've survived something you shouldn't have, after you've lived while someone better died.

Behind me, Mira's footsteps stop. The silence stretches, broken only by my ragged breathing.

Say something. Tell me to get up. Tell me to stop being pathetic.

But she doesn't push me or pull me up or tell me to get over it. She just stands there. The weight of her presence fills the space, patient and solid.

The Honda stares back at me with its empty headlight, waiting for answers I don't have.

Tommy loved this bike more than breathing. And I've kept it locked away like evidence of a crime.

"I can't ride it. I've paid storage on this thing for thirteen years and I can't even touch it."

My hands hover inches from the seat, trembling now. Finally.

Mira moves closer, her boots scraping concrete. The sound echoes in the cramped space like a gunshot.

"He wouldn't want this." Her hand lands on my shoulder, warm and solid. "You kneeling here like it's penance."

I can't look at her. Can't look at the bike. Can't look at anything except the oil stain on the floor that looks like a question mark.

"I should have gone first. I always went first."

"Stop." She grabs my chin, forces me to meet her eyes. Dark and fierce and completely unforgiving. "Stop dying with him."

Before I can respond, she pulls me to standing, backing me against the cold metal wall of the unit. The corrugated ridges bite through my shirt.

She's smaller than me but stronger right now. Everything about her is sharp edges and controlled violence.

"You want to honor him? Then live. Stop hiding his memory in storage units and monthly bills."

She's right and I hate her for it.

Then she kisses me.

Nothing gentle about it. All teeth and demand, she fists my shirt, pulling me down to meet her mouth. I freeze for half a second, shocked by the sudden shift from grief to this raw hunger.