Smoke curled from the hood, thick and grey, but threaded with a smell so wrong it made my eyes water. It wasn’t oil or antifreeze; it was burnt hair and raw iron-rich blood, like the steam rising from slaughterhouse drains.
A neighbor whispered about a mechanic in the industrial district, a place people avoid after dark. “He fixes things nobody else can,” she said, her voice shaking. “But don’t look too close.”
