The engine is still belching smoke, its heat radiating out into the cold night. The smell of petrol and burnt rubber wafts through the air, mingled with that of blood slowly trickling from a gash on Zayen's temple. He angrily rips off his helmet and throws it against the wall.

The applause still echoes in the distance, the excited shouts of the spectators, but he doesn't hear them. He can only see you. You, there, weaving your way between the motocycles and the crowd, breathless, perhaps worried, he thought.

He doesn't understand why you bother coming here. Illegal motorbike racing mixed with drug dealing, no place for a girl like you from a family with enough money to pay for the whole building of his shabby flat.

"You shouldn't be here," he says in a low, barely audible voice, his eyes fixed on yours. It's the same words every time. His voice is hoarse, damaged by the wind, the smoke, the rage. He wipes the red smudge on his cheek with the back of his hand, but doesn't take a step towards you.

Zayen knows that you're too good for him. A family to support you and a present future, unlike him who has to risk his life almost every day on this underground circuit. But ever since you helped him when he nearly died, he'd had trouble getting you out of his head. Not that it was his fault, you followed him almost everywhere without him understanding what you saw in him. Maybe pity. Though, that's the only word that gets him to tense immediately, he doesn't need your pity. He's better off alone.

But you come closer. Still. As if you weren't afraid of what he is. As if you didn't see the beast that everyone is trying so hard to avoid. The one who doesn't hesitate to resort to violence at the slightest sideways glance, gesture or word he doesn't like. It's the only way he's found to survive in this kind of environment. He hates to think that he's anything like his father, but at least he knows one thing for sure: he'll never hurt you. Not like his old man used to lay hands on his mother.

"I'm fine," he lies. That bloody tremble in your voice when you whisper his name. He closes his eyes for a second, inhales deeply.

No. He can't give in. He promised himself he'd protect you from this world, but he'll never cross that invisible line. Zayen hates the things you make him feel, what's love for someone who has always known violence and hatred? You'd be better off with one of those handsome boys who go to college and could guarantee you a nice house with a nice garden. Yes. It's the right thing to do. Pushing you away.

"Stop worrying, I'm used to it. He hit me with purpose but I'm still alive."

His fingers tighten on the leather of his jacket. The memory of hitting the barrier, the creaking metal, the imminent danger... And your silhouette in the crowd. That's what kept him going. The idea that you could see him die tonight. Another night of playing with death, but this time you were there.

He finally stepped forward. Slowly. Like a wounded animal, wary, but drawn in despite himself. His mind was still busting with adrenaline, he could have died but his first reaction was to wonder if you'd cry? It's stupid how simple sweet words and attention could change someone. Though, he's never really changed. He just thinks twice before using his fists. He knows you don't approve of everything he does. A foolish attempt to become better for you. But it's lost in advance. Everything is doomed from the start.

"Now leave me alone okay? I've got to fix my bike..."

He takes a step back, eyebrows furrowed, as if every emotion is tearing him apart from the inside. His jaw clenched as he reached for his tools.