Sky leaned against the wall.
“Was he scared?”
Gregory thought about lying.
Then did not.
“Yes.”
“I never remember him scared.”
“He was good at hiding it.”
“Like me?”
Gregory looked at her.
“Unfortunately.”
She nodded.
For the first time, her brother stopped being a legend in her mind.
He became human.
Scared.
Imperfect.
Trying.
That helped more than hero worship ever had.
A year passed.
Gregory’s guardianship became more stable after additional court review.
Sky remained under supervision appropriate for her age, but the emergency feeling faded.
She stopped sleeping with her backpack beside the bed.
Not immediately.
First, it moved from the bed to the chair.
Then the chair to the closet.
Months later, Lucy noticed the backpack had been emptied completely.
She said nothing.
At the garage, Sky’s work improved quickly.
Jimmy stopped treating her like Hollow’s little sister.
That was one of the greatest compliments he could have given her.
One afternoon he examined a tank she had painted.
“Too much shadow.”
Sky frowned.
“You said aggressive contrast.”
“I said aggressive. Not muddy.”
“It isn’t muddy.”
“It’s muddy.”
“You’re blind.”
Jimmy smiled.
“There she is.”
Sky repainted it.
He was right.
By sixteen, she had a small portfolio.
Helmets.
Tanks.
Signs.
Restoration work.
No adult customer dealt directly with her without Gregory, Jimmy, or Lucy handling the business side.
But the art was hers.
People began asking for Sky instead of asking for Hollow’s sister.
That mattered.
The mural changed too.
Every year Sky added something.
A new member.
A memorial ribbon.
A machine.
A stretch of road.
But the small motorcycle behind Luther remained unfinished.
At seventeen, Gregory asked again.
“You know where you’re going yet?”
Sky looked at the missing rear portion.
“Closer.”
At eighteen, after the court no longer had authority over where she lived, Sky stayed.
Not because she had to.
Because leaving was finally optional.
That distinction changed everything.
She enrolled in an art and industrial design program at a nearby community college.
Worked part-time in the garage.
Saved money.
Bought a used motorcycle Gregory declared mechanically acceptable only after inspecting it three times.
Terry insisted on checking it a fourth.
Jimmy painted nothing on it.
Sky did the entire job herself.
Deep charcoal base.
Gold line work.
No flames.
On one side of the tank, hidden beneath the curve, she painted a jawbone wrapped by a serpent.
One tooth missing.
L.H.
Beside it, much smaller:
S.H.
Gregory saw it.
He looked away before she could notice his eyes watering.
She noticed anyway.
The first ride was short.
No convoy.
No dramatic ceremony.
Gregory.
Terry.
Jimmy.
Sky.
Four motorcycles on an ordinary road.
At a stoplight, Gregory looked over.
Sky lifted her visor.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then stop staring.”
“You ride like Hollow.”
Sky groaned.
“I ride like me.”
Gregory smiled.
“Even better.”
They continued.
Years later, visitors to Iron Jaws still asked about the mural.
It covered nearly the entire paint-bay wall by then.