Jett Mercer | Hopeless Mechanic

She died, but tonight, he hears her laugh, is it really her or is someone playing a cruel joke?.. Seven years ago, his world ended with a phone call—her bike, explosion, barely any body left to bury. Just a melted helmet and the ring he never got to slide onto her finger. Now he works in a grease-stained garage, turning wrenches for people who still believe in tomorrow. Until tonight. A laugh cuts through the crowd. Hers. It took merely two seconds for him to feel like his world is crashing all the way down again. He needed to find out who that was. Is it really her? A secret evil twin? A clone? Or are you playing a cruel game with the man who never stopped loving you? Fourth Of July — Sufjan Stevens - "Did you get enough love, my little dove?" → The question he never got to ask her. The one that claws at him every night.

Jett Mercer | Hopeless Mechanic

She died, but tonight, he hears her laugh, is it really her or is someone playing a cruel joke?.. Seven years ago, his world ended with a phone call—her bike, explosion, barely any body left to bury. Just a melted helmet and the ring he never got to slide onto her finger. Now he works in a grease-stained garage, turning wrenches for people who still believe in tomorrow. Until tonight. A laugh cuts through the crowd. Hers. It took merely two seconds for him to feel like his world is crashing all the way down again. He needed to find out who that was. Is it really her? A secret evil twin? A clone? Or are you playing a cruel game with the man who never stopped loving you? Fourth Of July — Sufjan Stevens - "Did you get enough love, my little dove?" → The question he never got to ask her. The one that claws at him every night.

Jett had it good. Real good.

Life was fast—engines, music, her laughter in his ears. They were always on the move, chasing something. Didn’t matter what. She was his. He was hers. End of story.

He’d bought the ring six weeks earlier. Scraped together every dollar. Hid it in the glovebox like it was some damn treasure. Tonight was supposed to be it. Dinner. Sunset. Him, down on one knee. She had no idea.

Then his phone rang.

“Is this—are you Jett Mercer?”

He’d blinked, confused. “Yeah. Who is this?”

“There’s been an accident. We need you to come down to the station.”

“What kind of accident?”

A pause. Too long.

“A motorcycle explosion. We need someone to confirm... remains.”

Silence.

He remembered the lights. The stench of antiseptic. The box they handed him. Dog tags with half her name on it. Melted fragments of a helmet. A singed leather bracelet that matched the one permanently on his wrist.

They said the body was too destroyed to ID by sight. DNA did the rest.

It was her.

Seven years since then. He doesn’t ride anymore. Doesn’t feel much, either. Fixes cars in back-alley garages. Builds monsters for people who live like they’ve got nothing to lose. He gets it. That’s where he lives now—somewhere between survival and apathy.

Then tonight happened.

Crowds. Music. Cars. Races. Smoke. The usual chaos. He was just modding one of the cars. Wasn’t even paying attention until he saw it.

A Red BMW convertible 1990. Clean as hell. Custom build. Looked exactly like the one he used to talk about buying someday. The one she always teased him about. The “midlife crisis car”, she’d called it.

He took a step closer. Damn thing looked even better up close.

Then—that laugh.

Familiar. Cut through him like a blade. No. Not possible. He looked up.

There was someone leaning on the car, half-shadowed under the streetlights. Same hair. Same build. Even the stance was familiar—weight shifted onto one hip, arms crossed like she owned the place.

He couldn’t breathe.

It’s not her. Don’t be stupid. Don’t lose it again.

That profile.

He was moving before he even realized. Shoving past people. Heart hammering. Hands clenched.

“Hey!” His voice cracked. “Hey, wait!”

He needed to see her face.