Concrete Veins

Harlem, New York — 7:17 AM

The whine of a ratchet wrench echoed off the cinderblock walls like a ritual chant. It was too early for customers, too late for peace, and just the right time for Dorian Chase to pretend the world didn’t exist.

He slid out from under the '04 Impala on the lift, his hands slick with engine oil and grime, black crescents forming beneath his nails like he’d clawed his way out of something darker than metal. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his skin like a second conscience.

"Still breathing," he muttered, wiping his forearm across his brow. The shop was quiet—just the sound of his breath and the hum of Harlem outside the shuttered garage doors.

The place was called Iron Saints Automotive, but there were no saints left in it. Just Dorian and ghosts.

He glanced at the dented clock hanging above the door—its second hand twitching like it had a nervous tic. Jay was late, again. Not that Dorian minded. He preferred the quiet. Too many voices, and the memories came creeping in with them.

He washed his hands at the sink, the cold water biting. In the mirror above the rust-stained basin, his reflection stared back like it was waiting for something—something more than oil changes and brake pads. His locs were tied back, a few stubborn strands curling at his temple. His jaw was dusted in stubble and shadows. He barely recognized the man who looked back.

Then again, that was the point.

A loud bang from the alley broke the silence.

Dorian reached instinctively under the counter for the crowbar taped beneath it. He moved toward the side door, slow and cautious, before it creaked open with a metallic groan.

Jay stumbled in, hoodie unzipped, carrying a bag of what smelled like three-day-old Chinese food and an energy drink as neon green as a radioactive lizard.

“Yo, yo! Don’t swing, it’s me!” he gasped, ducking like Dorian actually would.

Dorian lowered the crowbar but didn’t let go. “One of these days, I’m not gonna stop the swing.”

Jay grinned, his glasses fogged from the temperature shift. “And yet, here I am. God’s favorite clown.”

“You’re not even your mom’s favorite clown.”

Jay dropped his bag on the counter, grabbed a shop towel, and wiped his hands like he’d done something useful. “Traffic was crazy. Some dude parked a whole mattress on 125th. Like, full mattress. Just chillin’ in the middle of the street. I thought I was dreaming.”

“You ever thought maybe you’re still asleep?”

Jay ignored him and hopped onto the stool behind the register like he owned the place. He did not.

Dorian turned back to the Impala. “Did you bring the alternator for the Mustang?”

Jay blinked. “...They had alternators?”

Dorian just stared.

“Kidding!” Jay cackled. “Yeah, yeah, it’s in the van. Man, you need to relax. Crack a smile. Or... attempt one. I swear I heard your laugh once in 2019.”

“I had a cold.”

“You sneezed joyfully.”

Dorian smirked despite himself, and that was all Jay needed to launch into a monologue about city decay, conspiracy theories, and how pigeons were probably government spies.

By 9:00 AM, the garage doors rolled open to the world, and Harlem’s heartbeat came spilling in—horns, voices, the rhythmic bass of street speakers, and the occasional yell that may or may not end in gunfire. The shop was a border town between normalcy and madness. And Dorian liked it that way. Neutral ground.

A few regulars drifted in—Miss Wanda from the corner bodega, complaining about her oil light, and Old Man Torres who didn’t actually own a car but came by to tell stories no one asked for.

Dorian worked quietly, methodically, letting his hands do the talking. With every bolt he turned, every gasket he replaced, he pushed the past further away. He wasn’t Dorian “Ace” Chase anymore—the guy who used to ghost through the city with secrets stitched in his jacket lining and cops on speed dial. He was just a mechanic. No more. No less.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Around noon, while Jay was attempting to seduce a vending machine across the street (“It’s eating my money like it’s got rent due!”), Dorian went into the office to check inventory.

There was a package sitting on the desk.

He hadn’t heard the doorbell. No knock. No delivery truck. Just... there.

It was small. Brown paper, no return address. Only his name written across the top in blocky, uneven letters:

His spine stiffened.

He looked around. No one in sight. Jay still arguing with the machine. Harlem’s noise still humming.

He picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Something metal inside, and something that shifted slightly when he tilted it.

He opened it.

Inside was a burner phone—old model, cracked screen. Dead battery. And a note.

Just one line.

“He’s alive. Come find him.”

Dorian’s hands froze. The room seemed to shrink around him, and the air grew thick as concrete.

His fingers gripped the note tighter. His throat was dry.

He hadn’t heard that phrase in years. He hadn’t needed to. Because Malik—his little brother—was dead.

Burned in the fallout of a war he couldn’t stop. Lost to fire and silence. No body. No closure. Just an endless ache and the knowledge that he should’ve been there.

He stumbled back, breathing shallow, the note fluttering to the floor like a fallen lie.

Jay walked in, still chewing a stolen Twizzler. “Bro, I think the machine is sentient. Also, do we have any—whoa, you good?”

Dorian didn’t answer.

Jay looked at the open box. “What’s that? Fan mail from your parole officer?”

Still nothing.

Jay’s eyes narrowed, and for once, he dropped the act. “Dorian?”

Dorian looked up. Slowly. Like he’d just realized the floor wasn’t under him anymore.

“I need the van,” he said quietly.

Jay blinked. “Uh... now?”

“Yes.”

“Where we going?”

Dorian picked up the burner phone and shoved it in his jacket. “Bronx.”

Jay looked outside, then back at Dorian. “You sure? It’s not exactly—”

Dorian was already walking.

Jay sighed. “Alright... cool. Unpaid road trip with zero answers. My favorite.”

He grabbed his hoodie and keys, following Dorian out the door.

Behind them, the note still lay on the floor.

Outside, the sun burned high in the sky—but for Dorian, the shadows had already begun to lengthen.