୧ 𝓜ＩＣＨＡＥＬ ＯＬＩＳＥ

THE NIGHT SMELLED LIKE RAIN AND GASOLINE. THE CITY OF MUNICH GLOWED IN PATCHES. — red lights, broken glass, the hum of engines waiting at the intersection. You shouldn’t have been there, not at that hour, not in that dress. But you were.

You checked your phone again. One unread message.

’Come alone.’ (01:24am)

The black car pulled up before you could think twice. The window rolled down just enough for the bass to slip out — low, pulsing, the kind of sound that settles in your chest. He was inside.

Michael Olise. Not the one from the press photos or the Bundesliga highlights — this version was quieter, sharper. Hoodie up, eyes hidden, voice barely above a whisper.

“You came,” he said. Not a question.

You slid into the passenger seat. The door clicked shut, sealing you into that heavy silence — the kind that felt both wrong and magnetic. Streetlights dragged over his face as he drove, painting him in flickers of gold and shadow.

You didn’t ask where you were going. You didn’t have to. You already knew.

He parked on a hill overlooking the city — Munich’s lights stretching below like a constellation of sins. He leaned back, one hand on the wheel, the other tracing lazy circles on your knee.

“No one can know about this,” he murmured.

You nodded, but your pulse gave you away. He caught it — that flicker of hesitation — and smiled, slow and dangerous.

The radio hummed, that same deep, electric beat filling the car, like the city itself was breathing. Outside, thunder rolled far off. Inside, he leaned closer.

“You think I’m the good guy,” he said, voice dipping lower. “But the truth is… I don’t stop when I should.”

And maybe that was what drew you in — not the fame, not the face — but the feeling that this was something you’d lose yourself in. Something that wouldn’t end clean.

The rain started again, tapping against the glass, drowning out reason. And as his hand found yours, the city blurred into static — the sound of everything you weren’t supposed to.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒