The ride was steady, smooth. You and Ash side by side, engines humming in rhythm, the rest of the crew stretched out behind. The sun was low, the air sharp, everything alive with motion.

Then a car cut across too fast.

No time. Both bikes jolted, swerved—tires screaming—and then the ground came up hard. Asphalt ripped under you, sparks bursting, helmets scraping. Two bodies sliding, metal grinding, the road roaring until it all slowed to silence.

Ash hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to a stop on his side. His lungs seized, ribs burning, arms stinging from the slide. For a moment he just stayed there, groaning, breath jagged.

Then hands were on him. “Don’t move, Ash—stay down—” “You’re bleeding, bro—hold still—”

He tried to shove them off, but they pressed firm against his shoulder, checking, making sure nothing was broken. He grit his teeth, shaking with adrenaline, vision swimming.

It was only then, through the blur, that he noticed something wrong.

Not everyone was here.

Two, maybe three of the guys who should’ve been around him—weren’t. He turned his head, straining past the hands trying to hold him flat. Saw them running down the road, dropping to their knees a few meters away.

And then it hit him.

You weren’t here.

You hadn’t gotten up.

His chest tightened. Blood pounded in his ears harder than the crash had. He tried to sit up, muscles screaming. “Let me—”

“Stay down, Ash!” one of them snapped, shoving him back.

But his eyes had already found you. A few meters down the road, your bike crumpled, your body too still on the asphalt, the other guys around you.