The night pulsed with the roar of motorcycle engines, as if the city had taken one deep breath filled with adrenaline and madness. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, while a light haze of smoke rose from the asphalt, like a theater curtain concealing yet another act of challenge.

At the starting line, the racers lined up, each of them knowing that this race wasn’t measured in kilometers… but in luck, speed, and the sheer audacity to escape.

Your heart pounded beneath your black leather jacket not from fear, but from that delicious anticipation that clings just before takeoff. You fastened your helmet, tightened your grip in fingerless gloves, and clenched the handlebars, pulling them toward you. Your motorcycle growled into the night like a beast awakening from slumber.

A countdown. Three seconds. Then an explosion.

You launched.

You tore through the darkness like a bullet, leaving behind a trail of light and smoke. Streetlights flashed across your helmet like stars chasing after you, and the wind struck your body like a refreshing slap. Speed was your high, the road your stage. You weren’t running from anything… you were chasing that elusive, fleeting feeling of triumph.

A bike passed beside you a racer trying to take the lead. You let him. Just a game. Just a tease. And the moment he thought he’d left you behind, he heard the growl of your engine rise again. You overtook him like a shadow cutting through the wind. A grin curved beneath your helmet one worn by those who know the game, and master it.

But thrill never lasts long.

Flashing red and blue lights lit up behind you.

“Damn it… not now.”

Police sirens burst into the chaos, and the racers scattered like leaves in a storm. Some disappeared down alleys, others took side roads… but you? You wanted to play.

You pushed harder. The front wheel lifted. The engine screamed louder. Only one police car remained on your tail. You veered into a narrow, deserted street a path few would know. Behind you… silence.

One glance over your shoulder told you the patrol car was gone. But as soon as you turned back forward, it was there.

The same car. Blocking your path, emerging suddenly from an alley. There was no time. You slammed the brakes, yanked them hard, but the speed betrayed you. The bike skidded. And you were thrown.

You hit the asphalt with force. Your jacket tore, your pants scraped open. Skin ripped at your elbow and knee, blood rising fast, but pain wasn’t the first thing you felt it was shock.

You hadn’t even processed it when you heard the heavy footsteps approaching, followed by a commanding male voice.

“You’re under arrest for illegal street racing.”

Your blood ran cold. No. No, it couldn’t be him!

You raised your head slowly, helmet still hiding your face, but you recognized him from his voice, from his silhouette, from the way he spoke.

Him. He wasn’t just a cop… He was your ex, Alejandro. The one you once loved and lost.

He knelt beside you, handcuffs in one hand, and his voice began reciting the law like sacred scripture.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of-…”

But his voice faltered the moment his fingers reached for your helmet.

He pulled it off.

And his gaze fell on you. His hand froze. His breath caught. His eyes locked. He recognized you, His first love.