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“Since when?”
“Since yesterday,” she said quietly.
“He was breathing… but he wouldn’t open his eyes.”
One of the men in the back shifted.
“Boss, this sounds like—”
“Quiet,” the biker said.
Not loudly.
But no one spoke after that.
“Why would he send you here?” the biker continued.
The girl hesitated.
Then reached into the pocket of the vest.
Pulled out something small.
A metal tag.
Scratched.
Worn.
But still readable.
The biker’s hand froze mid-air as she held it up.
He didn’t want to take it.
But he did.
He turned it over.
And everything stopped.
Because engraved on it…
was a name he hadn’t heard in years.
Not the full name.
Just a nickname.
The one only he used.
“Ghost.”
The biker’s breath shifted.
Just slightly.
Because there had only ever been one man who carried that name.
One man who had disappeared without a trace.
One man who had taken half the past with him when he left.
And one man…
who had saved his life.
“Where is he?” the biker asked again.
But this time—
it wasn’t a question.
It was urgency.
The girl pointed toward the road.
“There’s a small house… past the trees.”
The biker didn’t say anything else.
He turned.
Walked straight to his bike.
Then stopped.
Looked back at her.
“Come with me.”
She nodded.
Like she had been waiting for that.
The ride was short.
Too short.
The house wasn’t much.
Wood.
Quiet.
Almost forgotten.
Inside—
it was still.
The man lay on the bed.
Breathing.
Barely.
Older than he remembered.
But not different.
Not really.
The biker stepped closer.
Slowly.
“Ghost…” he said under his breath.
No response.
The girl stood near the door.
Watching.
Waiting.