Chapter 5

I stared fixedly at that photo.

"Kid? What's wrong? You know him?" Mitch noticed my distress.

I didn't answer.

Tears streamed uncontrollably.

All my carefully constructed composure crumbled at that moment.

Why?

Why did he get to steal my life and still smile so brightly?

I grabbed a wrench from beside the bed and slammed it against the wall like a madwoman.

"BANG! BANG! BANG!"

Each impact felt like a blow to my own heart.

"Enough!"

Jax burst in, snatching the wrench from my hand.

His grip was strong; I couldn't break free.

"What's the point of crying? What's the point of smashing the wall?" he glared at me, a cold fire in his eyes.

"If you have energy, use it in the right place."

I looked up, my eyes blurry with tears: "What can I do? My leg is broken, my college is gone, everything is gone!"

"If it's gone, take it back," Jax's voice was low, but every word hit me with solid weight.

He shoved the wrench back into my hand, the force of it digging into my palm.

"Want revenge?"

He squatted down, meeting my gaze, repeating the question he had asked when I first arrived.

"First, learn how to fix cars."

"Later, it'll make breaking people easier."

From that day on, I stopped crying.

Tears were a weapon for the weak, and I no longer wanted to be weak.

I poured all my time and energy into learning car repair.

I sat in a wheelchair, letting Tank push me around the garage.

Wherever Jax went, I followed.

When he disassembled an engine, I handed him tools.

When he painted a car, I stood by, learning how to mix colors.

The greasy wrenches, screwdrivers, and jacks gradually became familiar in my hands.

My fingernails were perpetually caked with black grease, impossible to wash clean. The smell of motor oil became my own scent.

The men at the garage looked at me differently.

From initial sympathy and pity, their expressions turned to surprise, and finally, acceptance.

"Kid, you're good! That carburetor is cleaner than mine!" Mitch gave me a thumbs-up.

Pops ran his fingers over a part I had polished, nodding:

"Hmm, steady hand, calm mind. You've got talent."

Only Jax never praised me.

He only held me to stricter standards.

"The torque on this screw is wrong; it's too tight, you'll strip the threads. Do it again."

"The wiring is wrong. Want the car to spontaneously combust? Take it apart, re-wire."

"Looks like a dog gnawed on it, take it back and make it shine until you can see your own pathetic face in it."

I didn't complain. Whatever he told me to do, I did.

Because I knew he wasn't just teaching me how to fix cars.

Two months later, my leg could finally bear weight.

Though I still limped slightly, it no longer affected my movement.

That night, Jax called me into his room.

It was a small single room, with nothing but a bed and a table.

On the table sat a photo frame, holding a picture of a sweet-smiling girl.

It was his sister.

He pulled a file folder from a drawer and tossed it to me.