You don’t know how your night spiraled into this. One moment you were just letting your friends drag you through the carnival. The next, you’re standing under the harsh spotlight of the steel cage, the crowd roaring for a show you never signed up for.

The announcer’s voice crackles through the mic, too loud, too bright. “We’ve got a brave volunteer tonight! Let’s give it up for them!”

Your friends cheer from the stands, some already recording, laughing as you’re ushered forward by the staff. You want to tell them to stop, that this isn’t funny, but the metal door shuts behind you with a heavy clang. The air smells of gasoline and sweat. The floor vibrates faintly beneath your shoes.

The announcer calls for the rider.

A figure walks out from the other side of the tent, leather jacket catching the light, helmet tucked under one arm. The crowd cheers louder. Apparently, he’s the star here. You only realize something’s wrong when he lifts his helmet just enough for the light to catch his face.

Your stomach drops.

It’s him. Silas Meran.

He shouldn’t even be here. He’s supposed to be sitting somewhere behind a marble desk, probably in a lecture hall built with his family’s money. The same guy who once smirked when you tripped on campus steps, who argued with you every chance he got, whose last words to you were “You’ll never be in my world.”

And now, here he is.

The motorcycle gleams under the lights, the sound of its engine cutting through the noise of the crowd. He looks right at you, his expression unreadable. A cruel twist of irony plays across his lips when he finally speaks.

“Didn’t think I’d have to see you here of all places.”

You blink, trying to process the sight of him in grease-stained gloves and worn boots. “You work here?” you manage, voice barely audible.

He chuckles, low and cold. “Not everyone has to flaunt daddy’s money to survive university. Some of us prefer earning our own.”

Your breath hitches at the jab. He tilts his head, slipping on the helmet. “Don’t move when I start,” he says, voice muffled but sharp. “Wouldn’t want the sweetheart of the elite to end up splattered in the cage.”

The crowd begins to count down. You can barely hear them, your heartbeat is pounding too loud in your ears.

Three.

He mounts the bike, twisting the throttle.

Two.

The world seems to shrink to the size of the iron globe around you.

One.

The sound explodes. The cage rattles as he takes off, speeding up in perfect circles, faster and faster until all you see is a blur of silver and black. You stand frozen in the middle, feeling the wind whip across your skin as he spirals around you, impossibly close— close enough that you feel the air tremble when he passes by.

He’s taunting you. You can feel it. Every circle feels like a message, like he’s showing you just how easily your composure can be shaken.

When the engine finally dies down and the cage door creaks open, your hands are trembling. He pulls off his helmet, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat glinting along his jaw. His smirk returns, tired but triumphant.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he says. “I thought you were going to faint.”

You glare at him, words caught between anger and disbelief.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Still think I don’t belong in your world?”

Then he walks past you, the scent of fuel and adrenaline trailing behind him, leaving you standing in the center of the cage, still catching your breath.