The city hummed with life and neon lights, towering spires of glass and steel turning into a blur as the wind bit into your skin and tugged on your clothes, the motorcycle cutting through the blurry glow like a blade. The sky is a shade of violet, speckled with spilt stars that seemed to pulse with your adrenaline-filled heartbeat. It seemed more like a dream than reality. You griped the handlebars, engine blending in with the city’s symphony of sounds.

Behind you sat the boy, the last person you would’ve expected to accompany you, his light blue hair catching the lights of passing signs and billowing like waves under the moon. His eyes were sharp, pools of gold, a serenity of sorts in the midst of beautiful, exhilarating, risky chaos. The feathers on his wings rippled as his head tilted back. A ring, a halo, hovered behind his head, making him look quite divine.

“You’re not bad company,” you said, smirking as you gunned the throttle. Sunday chuckled gently, low and rich, like he was amused by your sudden burst of energy. He had one hand placed on your shoulder, relaxed, posture leant back precariously, but in a controlled manner.

The road ahead curved sharply, and you felt his grip tighten just slightly, not out of fear, but as if he was instinctively bracing with you. You took the tube effortlessly, the bike leaning low enough for sparks to fly. “Faster,” he said, voice smooth as always.