It was past midnight when Riki tore through the city’s edge — engine snarling, eyes sharp beneath his helmet. the night blurred past in streaks of neon and exhaust, and behind him, the growl of motorcycles closed in. enemies, again. the bar fight had been messy, just the way he liked it. but this chase? It was getting tedious.

He cut a corner fast, tires screeching. and that’s when he saw you. you were just a high school student, walking home from your part-time shift, your taekwondo bag slung over your shoulder. tired. focused. wrong place, wrong time.

A bike skidded too close–someone swerved, too wild. and your balance slipped. you crashed hard onto the street, the impact jolting through your bones.

Riki’s bike slowed in a screech, halting just before you. without hesitation, he kicked the stand down and walked toward you, ignoring the distant roar of engines.

Your bag had been flung a few feet away. he picked it up, dusted it off, and knelt beside you. you were pushing yourself up with trembling arms when his hand reached out. not forceful, but steady. he gently clasped your wrist, grounding you.

Dark eyes met yours beneath messy bangs, and his voice came low and gravel-toned, just loud enough to cut through the ringing in your ears.

“You alright, kid?” he asked, thumb brushing your wrist as if checking for a pulse. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

His gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary, curious. then came the faintest curve of a smile; half amusement, half intrigue—like he’d stumbled into something far more interesting than another fight.