Page 9 of Endo

The bottle is still in my hand, and I step under the water. The scalding heat hits like a slap, but I welcome it. It cascades over my shoulders and down my back, the heat chasing away the chill that’s settled deep in my bones. My skin turns red under the assault, but I don’t move. I let it burn, let it scald as if it can cleanse the weight pressing down on me.

The whiskey is in the corner of the shower, and condensation is already gathering on the glass. I take another swig, the alcohol cutting through the steam and leaving fire in its wake. The combination of the water, the whiskey, and the music feels like chaos and order all at once, a war raging between numbness and pain.

The water pounds against my skull, drowning out the world outside the walls of this tiny bathroom. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the music, heat, and alcohol wrap around me like a cocoon. But it’s only a moment.

Because somewhere in the haze, the thought pushes through again—the one that’s been circling my mind for weeks, gnawing at the edges of my sanity.

Maybe I was supposed to die that day too.

4

LENA

The Other Side - Ruelle

The rhythmic humof the water filters is oddly soothing as I move through the tanks, clipboard in hand. The ocean rehabilitation center is quiet today, the kind of quiet that seeps into your bones if you let it. I pause at the door leading to the larger tanks, exhaling slowly before pushing it open. The scent of saltwater greets me, mingled with the faint metallic tang of antiseptic.

Outside, the building housing the big tanks looms against the pale morning sky. As I step in, the air is cooler, damp with mist from the filtration systems. A soft splash echoes through the space, drawing my gaze to the newest arrival—a young dolphin, barely out of infancy. His sleek gray body moves slowly, too slowly, through the water. His dorsal fin droops slightly, and there’s a noticeable scar running down his side. It’s the kind of wound that tells a story—one of entanglement and escape.

“Hey there, Finn,” I say softly, the name rolling off my tongue as if I’ve known him for years. He glances my way, one dark, intelligent eye meeting mine. His movements are sluggish, andmy chest tightens at the sight. Finn was found tangled in a ghost net off the coast, his body cut and bruised from his desperate struggle to break free. The fishermen who spotted him said he lingered near their boat, as if asking for help. That’s how he ended up here.

I crouch by the edge of the tank, watching him circle slowly, his breaths labored but steady. “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” I murmur, scribbling notes on his progress. He’s been here three days, and the prognosis is cautiously optimistic. The wounds are healing, but his energy levels are low, and his buoyancy is off—a common issue with trauma like his.

The building is quiet except for the steady slosh of water and the hum of the pumps, but my mind doesn’t stay quiet for long. It drifts, unbidden, to memories I’ve tried to keep at bay. Late-night walks along the shore with Cruz, the two of us tracing the edge of the ocean under a canopy of stars. I can still feel the cool sand under my toes, hear the waves crashing in rhythm with his laugh—bright, unrestrained, full of a life he believed would always stretch out ahead of him.

We’d talk for hours on those nights, about racing, about the futures we’d build once we left everything weighing us down behind. His voice comes back to me now, as clear as the water in Finn’s tank,“You’re gonna do big things, Lena. Things that matter.”The words twist in my chest like a blade, sharp and relentless.

I shake the thought off and refocus on Finn. He pauses his slow circling, eyeing me again, and I swear there’s a spark of curiosity there. “You’ve got this,” I whisper. “We both do.” Whether I believe it or not is a different matter entirely.

I blink back the sting in my eyes and refocus on Finn, making adjustments to the water temperature. It’s safer to stay busy. Safer to avoid the weight of grief threatening to pull me under.

“Lena!” Isla’s voice carries from across the room, startling me out of my thoughts. She’s standing by the entrance, her hair pulled into a loose braid, a smile that’s half apology, half excitement on her face.

“Yeah?” I set down my clipboard and walk over, grateful for the distraction.

“There’s a party tonight at the beach,” she says, her tone light and hopeful. “You should come. It’ll be fun—music, drinks, the works.”

I hesitate, the idea of a party feeling like trying to fit into a life that isn’t mine anymore. “I can’t. I’ve got plans.”

Her smile falters but doesn’t completely fade. “You sure? You’ve been... I don’t know, kind of distant lately. It might be good for you.”

“I appreciate it,” I say, forcing a small smile, “but really, I can’t tonight. Maybe another time.”

Isla doesn’t push, just gives me a nod before heading back to her station. The truth is, I do have plans—just not the kind I’m eager to explain. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know who it is. Pulling it out, I see another text from Revel.

Revel: Strip tonight. Be there. I’m gonna blow their fucking minds.

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small grin tugging at my lips. Typical Revel. He’s been hyped about this race all week, texting me nonstop. He’s convinced the Speed Demons will show, that tonight is his shot to prove he’s the one who deserves to join their ranks. It’s all he’s been talking about for weeks—this moment, this race, how he’s going to finally earn his place.

It’s funny, though—this isn’t something Revel’s always wanted. Back when we first got here, he didn’t care about the Demons or their reputation. But since he got back into riding,it’s like something clicked. That world of speed, precision, and control—it’s got its hooks in him now. And honestly? I get it. The way he talks about it, the way his eyes light up when he’s tuning his bike or planning a line through a tricky corner, it’s like he’s found a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing.

And it’s not just talk. Even I know he’s got what it takes.

Revel’s a damn good rider. His balance is flawless, the way he leans into turns like he’s part of the machine. He’s got the instincts for it too—knows when to push, when to hold back, when to let the throttle breathe and when to pin it. I’ve seen him nail lines through technical routes that leave other riders struggling. His reaction time is unreal, and he doesn’t just ride for speed; he rides smart. Always calculating, always a step ahead.

So yeah, even I know he belongs out there. He’s got the skill, the focus, the fire.

But then there’s the other side of it: Revel’s protectiveness. And the Speed Demons? They’re not about that life. They don’t need someone jumping in to play referee every time shit gets messy. And Revel? He’s got a habit of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, especially when it comes to me or anyone he gives a damn about.

---