The gas light in Lena’s car had been blinking since last night, and her bank account had been hanging on by a thread for a week, but she told herself she only needed one thing. Just one. Formula. That was all.
She could figure out the rest later.
That was what she always did.
She figured out later until later became too heavy to carry.
She pulled off the highway and into a small gas station near the edge of town, the kind of place where the paint on the building looked sun-faded and tired, like it had seen too many hard winters and too many people passing through without ever really stopping. A neon sign in the window flickered the word OPEN, though it seemed like it could give up at any second.
The parking lot was cracked. A few cars were scattered around, and near the far end, three motorcycles sat angled like predators resting in the shade.
Lena noticed them immediately.
Not because she cared about motorcycles.
But because the bikes were big, heavy, and unmistakably expensive, the kind of machines that seemed to vibrate with menace even when they weren’t running. And beside them stood three men in black leather vests, talking low, laughing at something only they understood.
Her throat tightened.
