“Seth,” Richie whispered. “Le sang. Il parle encore.” The blood. It speaks again.

The lights went out.

The ’69 Charger sat on the shoulder, engine ticking as it cooled. Seth Gecko leaned against the hood, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His brother, Richie, was crouched by the back tire, drawing slow circles in the dust with a switchblade.

Seth stared at it for a long moment. Then he started the engine, popped a cassette into the deck, and drove north as the sun rose.

“Je sais,” Seth replied quietly. I know.

“Seth,” he said, licking his lips. “On va brûler cet endroit.” We’re gonna burn this place down.

The neon sign buzzed in Spanish and English: ABIERTO – OPEN . The parking lot was empty except for a single hearse and a van with no plates.

“On se casse dans dix minutes,” Seth muttered to himself, practicing the French line he’d memorized. We leave in ten minutes.