That was when she asked his name.
He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “They call me Wraith.”
Her hands froze.
Everyone in the city knew that name, whispered like a warning, etched into police reports and urban legends, the vanished leader of the Iron Serpents motorcycle syndicate, a man rumored dead after a violent internal collapse that left dozens of neighborhoods changed for better or worse depending on who told the story.
“That’s not funny,” Iris said.
“It’s not a joke,” he replied softly. “But tonight, it doesn’t matter.”
Sirens wailed somewhere distant, not close enough to save him, but close enough to doom him if they came sweeping, and Iris made the decision before she understood it fully, because sometimes courage is just fear with no exit left.
“Where can I take you?”
He stared at her, something calculating giving way to disbelief, then to hope so fragile it hurt to see. “There’s a place. Old rail depot. Car nine. Red stripe.”
She helped him stand, hauled his weight across her shoulders, somehow fitting two infant carriers into her scooter’s insulated compartment, praying the vents were enough, praying the universe hadn’t decided this was where her story ended, and she drove into the night as motorcycle engines ignited behind them, the sound unmistakable and closing fast.
