CHAPTER 47: SOMETHING LOOSEN

The rhythmic click of metal echoed through the garage as Lucien tightened the last bolt. The bike, Hunter’s bike from the tournament, the one that had been practically shattered, now gleamed under the dim yellow lights. Piece by piece, he had rebuilt it. Bit by bit, it had come back to life. And seeing it whole again made a quiet pride swell in his chest.

He wiped sweat from his brow, stepping back to admire the machine.

Just then, Old Man Harris shuffled up behind him, mug of his mysterious herbal concoction steaming in his hand.

"Well, I’ll be," Harris said, whistling under his breath. "This baby’s as good as new, eh kid?" He took a long sip, the smell of whatever was in there strong enough to burn someone’s lungs. "This bike was so wrecked I nearly buried it myself, but I knew you’d pull it up."

Lucien’s smile was small but genuine. "Yeah... we’ve got another event rolling up soon. I need to take it for a test drive before it hits the track again.", he looked at the cup but didn’t bother asking what he was drinking, probably one of the stories on how that brings one to immortality

Harris nodded approvingly. "Good thinking. Wish someone else was as focused on winning as you are, instead of wrecking his damn bike, i swear that kid always get my heart pumping each time." He huffed. "Ethan... that kid came in last night with his bike in smokes."

Lucien froze mid-motion.

He turned slowly. "Ethan... was here?"

"Mm-hm," Harris grunted. "And he wasn’t in good shape either. Had this blank expression on his face when I asked what happened." Harris scratched his beard with a frown. "Kid didn’t say a word. Just handed me the keys. Honestly, I’m glad he didn’t wind up in an accident."

Lucien stared at the tools on the workbench, but his mind was suddenly far away.

A blank expression. Smoke. Silence.

It didn’t sound like Ethan at all.

Harris sighed. "I wonder what happened to him..."

Lucien didn’t answer. His jaw slowed its movement, his hand tightening slightly around the wrench.

His mind replayed that last moment, the argument they’d had when he took Coco. Ethan’s pleading tone. Lucien’s frustration. The distance that had formed in an instant.

He can’t be upset about that... right? Lucien thought, trying to convince himself. He’s not the type to care about anything unless it includes his younger sister...

But something twisted in his gut anyway, unease, guilt, confusion.

He stared at the bike in front of him, yet all he could see was Ethan’s empty eyes that Harris had described.

Something wasn’t right.

Not at all.

The garage was quieter than usual, the hum of machinery reduced to a soft, distant vibration. Lucien stood just inside the doorway, hands buried in his pockets, eyes fixed on the cluttered room as Harris rummaged through a set of keys.

"Can I see the bike?" Lucien asked.

The question came out unexpectedly soft, almost uncertain. Harris paused mid-movement and turned, his brows knitting together. It wasn’t a request he’d been expecting. Not from Lucien. Not after everything.

But after a moment, the older man simply jerked his chin. "Yeah. Sure. Come on, kiddo."

He led the way through rows of metal shelves stacked with spare parts, old tools, and half-finished projects. The air smelled of engine oil, cold metal, and the faint sting of welding fumes. Lucien followed without a sound, each step feeling heavier than the last.

They stopped beside a tarp-covered shape in the corner of the garage, the old racing bay, once reserved for the best of the best. Now forgotten. Dust coated everything like a thin, grey snowfall.

Harris grabbed the tarp. "Haven’t touched it since that day," he muttered.

Then he pulled.

The tarp slid away with a dry hiss.

There it was.

The bike.

Its once-sleek frame dulled by grime, its engine casing burned and melted along the edges as though it had been caught mid-scream. The scorch marks were a violent black, scars refusing to fade.

"The engine’s busted," Harris said, knocking twice on the metal. "Overheated. Badly. Melted half the internals. Honestly, kiddo... it’s a miracle it didn’t explode."

The words barely registered.

Lucien stepped closer as if pulled by gravity itself. His fingers rose, hesitating before finally brushing the cold metal. Every scratch held a memory. Every dent, a story. The tank still carried the faint outline of a flame decal, hand-painted, childish, stubborn.

He swallowed hard.

"Can... can I fix it?" he asked.

The question hung between them, fragile as glass.

Harris stared at him. Really stared. "You want to?"

His voice was thick with disbelief.

"I thought you and him were on bad terms."

Lucien’s lips parted, but the answer took a moment to form. "He won’t have to find out."

There was no bitterness in his tone, just a quiet ache. The kind that came from holding something too long without speaking it.

Harris opened his mouth, then shut it again. A sigh left him, heavy and sympathetic. Eventually he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Well... whatever you say, kiddo."

He stepped back, wiping his palms against his coveralls. "I’ll be in the office if you need anything."

His boots echoed on the concrete as he walked away, each step fainter than the last until the garage swallowed the sound completely.

Silence settled.

Lucien stood alone with the ruined machine. With the weight of years pressing down on him.

"So many memories," he whispered.

He crouched beside the bike, his fingers drifting over the worn leather of the seat, the bent foot peg, the hand-painted number on the side, faded but still visible. His throat tightened as he traced the curves of the frame. This bike had carried him through his first race, his first victory, his first crash. It had been a constant when everything else shifted.

And now it was broken.

"I wonder if this is how you feel too," he murmured to the bike. "Burnt out. Pushed too hard. Left to rust."

His voice cracked on the last word.

For a moment, he let himself feel it, the guilt, the anger, the longing he’d buried for months. All the things left unsaid. All the things he wished he could take back.

Then he inhaled, steadying himself.

Lucien dragged the toolbox closer, flipping it open with a metallic click. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing the grease stains from earlier work and the faint tremble in his fingers.

He picked up a wrench.

"Alright," he said softly, almost to himself. "Let’s start from the beginning."

And as the first bolt loosened, something inside him began to loosen too.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But the first step toward it

After what felt like an eternity, Lucian finally lowered his wrench. His hands ached, his clothes were streaked with grease, and sweat clung to his brow. But the engine purred, soft and steady, like a heartbeat revived.

He exhaled, wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, and stepped away.

It was done.

The bike that had come in as charred remains now stood tall again, restored piece by piece.

Lucian gave it one last look before heading toward Harris’s office. He pushed the door open, the bell above it giving a weak jingle.

"I’m done with the bike," Lucian announced.

Harris looked up from a pile of paperwork, his face splitting into a proud grin. "Well, I knew you’d pull it off. Thanks for helping there, kiddo. Not everyone would’ve touched that wreck ,let alone fix it."

Lucian tried to brush off the praise, but his gaze drifted, caught by something on the wall behind Harris. A large map pinned neatly, covered in sharp lines, color-coded zones, and glowing markers.

"Is that the newest map they released?" Lucian asked, moving closer.

Harris leaned back in his chair with a nod. "Yep. Fresh from the organizers. Location is a killer this time. I went to check it out the other day."

Lucian’s brows rose. "You actually went there?"

"Curiosity nearly killed the old man," Harris snorted, taking a slow sip of his concoction. "But damn, it was worth the drive."

Lucian stepped nearer, eyes scanning the layout. It was more complex than previous events, twisting canyons, abandoned factory lots, dense forest routes, and steep inclines. Narrow passes. Sharp drop-offs. Dirty shortcuts that only a maniac would attempt.

He traced a finger across the edge of the map. "Do you... happen to know the next game?"

Harris chuckled. "Knew you’d ask. Yeah, the next event is called Capture the Flag

."

Lucian blinked at him, deadpan. "The owner of this event must’ve gone nutty."

Harris burst out laughing. "I KNEW you’d say that!"

Lucian crossed his arms. "How do you even combine bikes with capture the flag?"

"Well," Harris said, settling in like he was about to give a lecture, "listen up."

Harris tapped the map.

"Alright, kiddo. Here’s how it works. They took the classic ’capture the flag’ game, y’know, two teams trying to steal each other’s flag, and turned it into something that’ll probably get half of you hospitalized."

"Sounds about right," Lucian muttered.

Harris continued:

"Each team gets a base somewhere on this giant map. Could be deep in the forest, top of a hill, middle of a junkyard,depends on what they pull out of their crazy hat."

"Each base has a flag. A real one, not some digital thing."

"You gotta race, fast and smart, into enemy territory, grab their flag, and bring it back to your base without getting knocked off your bike."

Lucian raised an eyebrow. "So basically, legalized chaos."

"Exactly."

"Once you grab the flag, a tracker lights up on the map. Your opponents will know exactly where you are. So you better be fast, or better yet, unpredictable."

Lucian sighed "thats

"The map is divided into zones. Some areas are safe routes, smooth, wide, fast. Others are traps—steep cliffs, narrow turns, debris-covered roads. If you’re carrying the flag, going through traps is a huge gamble."

Harris coughed. "Well... controlled combat."

Lucian stared at him. "Define ’controlled’."

"No lethal blows, no metal bats, no knocking someone into a ditch. But nudging, forcing someone off-course, clipping wheels, yeah, that’s allowed."

Lucian groaned. "Someone’s gonna die."

"Probably," Harris shrugged.

"Once you bring the enemy flag to your base and plant it in your holder, that’s it. End of game. But if you drop the flag or crash, someone else can grab it."

"Even though it’s team-based, your speed, distance, survival time, and combat evasion get you points. Those go into your personal ranking for the tournament."

Lucian processed all this slowly, staring at the map again.

"...The owner has gone completely insane," he declared at last.

Harris slapped his knee. "Kid, this is the kind of chaos that brings money! Viewers eat this stuff up. And them racers, you pretend to complain, but deep down? You LOVE it."

Lucian rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his lips. "the only person who will love and hate this is Spike "

Harris leaned back. "So, kiddo... planning to bring Hunter to race again?"

Lucian stared at the map again, calculating risks, routes, possibilities.

"...Yeah," he said finally. "But this time... I need to be more prepared."