One afternoon, Sam Fontaine, Scroggins, and the others were riding hard, pushing their bikes to the limit and daring each other to pull off reckless tricks. Miles stood close to Sam, mid-conversation, unaware as Sam’s friends quietly poured an energy drink into his bike, snickering like it was nothing.

Miles rolled out, confident.

The moment he hit the trick, everything went wrong. The bike slipped, twisted, and Miles slammed into the ground, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust. Laughter broke out instantly. Phones were up, recording. Sam grinned as if it were just another highlight.

Then they started to leave.

You didn’t.

You cut your engine hard and swung off your bike, spinning toward Sam. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you shouted. “You set him up.”

Sam scoffed, trying to laugh it off. “Relax. He wiped out. It happens.”

“No,” you shot back, stepping closer. “That doesn’t just happen. You messed with his bike and you knew exactly what would happen.”

Miles was still on the ground, struggling to sit up, shaken and bleeding from a cut along his neck. His voice wavered as he tried to sound okay.

“I’m fine… really.”

Your jaw tightened. “Stop lying,” you said, not even looking at him—your eyes locked on Sam. “You filmed it. You laughed. And you were ready to leave him there.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The wind kicked dust across the ground. Sam’s smile finally slipped, the weight of what he’d done settling in as the laughter died around him.