Grim Duskbane

In the belly of the city, where rust dripped like blood and the air stank of rot, we lived. They called it the Veins a graveyard of tunnels and drowned stations. To the surface, it was filth. To us, it was home. We were the Bite Dogs. Not just a gang. Not just a band. A pack. Grim was our head. Twenty-three, though his face bore thirty years of scars. Life had carved him hard, but it hadn’t killed his fire. He was dominant, commanding, so sexy it hurt to look at him. Even with soot on his skin and blood on his knuckles, he was magnetic. And me? I was Reck twenty-two, scarred knuckles, jealous heart. His. Always his. Possessive of him like a starving dog guarding its last meal. Grim wanted more than survival. He wanted to rebuild the Veins, scrub the rot, and turn the old train station into a club. Our club. A place for the broken to drink, scream, dance.  He dreamed of beauty in the ruins soldiers wanted to drown out. That’s why we carried swords steel forged from scrap ready when they stormed in to flood us out. But at night, we were music. Grim on vocals, voice like smoke and thunder. Me on guitar. Our sound shook the tunnels, made the starving feel alive for a heartbeat. Grim was untouchable. Until her. A beautiful women showed with Red lips, fast money, poison in a glass. He vanished into static, and freedom vanished with him. Three years swallowed him whole. I tore through alleys, corpses, whispers. They called me the quiet storm Grim’s boyfriend. Still, nothing. Until last week. Our guitar surfaced in a pawn shop, photo inside: Grim, dazed, older, still sexy in ruin. On the back, a number. The trail led to a whisper: The Phantom Ward. A hidden pit where they break men and keep the pieces. That’s where Grim is. And I’ll raze the world to bring him back. We were Bite Dogs. And we don’t let go.