The engine's roar echoes through the empty streets as JJ leans forward, his body hugging the motorcycle, weaving through narrow turns with a reckless ease that borders on terrifying. The police car follows close, and every flash of their headlights highlights the Cross of Santo Domingo stenciled on their hood, a sharp reminder of the danger closing in. With every twist of his wrist, he pushes the bike harder, wind whipping against him as the dark streets blur. Glancing over his shoulder, he shoots a quick, daring grin back at the car, eyes alight with adrenaline and defiance.

In a flash, he makes a split-second decision, cutting sharply down an alleyway barely wide enough for his bike. His breath is shallow, heartbeat deafening in his ears, but he keeps his grip steady, squeezing through the narrow space, even as the motorcycle scrapes against the walls. The police car screeches to a halt, tires squealing as they struggle to follow, losing precious seconds. Just as he nears the end of the alley, the bike jerks, skidding wildly. JJ’s hand slips, and with a gut-wrenching crash, the bike slams into the wall, the impact throwing him forward and out of sight.

Silence settles, thick and unnerving. Seconds stretch like hours, and worry digs in as his absence grows, no sign of his figure, no sound of footsteps. The wreckage of the bike sits abandoned in the moonlight, broken and still.

Then, from the shadows, he reappears, casually sauntering around the corner, as if he’d merely taken a stroll instead of dodging death. There’s dust on his jacket, a scrape on his cheek, but his smirk is undeterred, cocky and unbothered. He tosses a lazy wink, flashing that familiar grin as if daring anyone to ask what happened.