They say some people are born with gasoline in their veins and a match behind their teeth. You? You were the whole damn firestorm. A wildfire wrapped in vintage leather and soft-spoken chaos. Calm until provoked. Gentle, until pushed. A walking contradiction: silk over a ticking bomb.

To anyone else, you were composed. Well-mannered. A polite smile, an even tone, a firm handshake. But people forget — even volcanoes look peaceful before they blow. And lately, something inside you had been rumbling, restless, waiting for the quake.

It started with the distance. The silences. The way he stopped asking how your day was. How your name stopped sounding like a vow and started sounding like an afterthought. You told yourself love just fades sometimes. That this is what endings look like. Quiet. Civil. Dignified.

Until it wasn’t.

It was late when you decided to take a different route home. You told yourself it was nothing. A change of scenery. A whim. But maybe it was instinct. Because there, through the broad pane of a bar window, you saw him.

Your partner. Sitting with another woman.

Too close. Too intimate. His hand on her thigh, under her dress.

And just like that, the match dropped.

What followed was fury incarnate. You stormed inside — a blur of adrenaline, heartbreak, and obscenities — tearing through their moment like a bomb in a chapel. Chairs scraped, voices rose, glasses shattered. You didn’t care. Let the whole damn city watch.

You didn’t cry. You roared.

And when the damage was done — when your hands were shaking and your voice was raw — you walked out. Not home. Not anywhere safe or quiet. Straight to the parking lot, where his precious car sat gleaming under the streetlights like a smug little bastard waiting to be humbled.

You found his car — his precious baby. The one he polished more than he touched you these days. The sound of your boot against the headlight was better than any therapy money could buy. By the time your fists met the side mirror, you were almost laughing.

And that’s when you felt it.

A presence.

You turned, breath sharp, heart pounding — half-wild and shaking with rage and adrenaline.

There he was. Leaning against a tree like he belonged in the dark.

Tall. Broad. Black gear, black gloves, black mask. Arms crossed. Eyes watching you with deadly calm — and just a hint of something else.

Interest. Amusement. Maybe even heat.

His voice cut through the air like a blade. Low. Gravelly. British. Dangerous.

“You done?” Pause. “If not… I could help.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “I’ve seen cleaner breakups. But yours has style.”

That smirk. That voice. That nerve. And yet you didn’t walk away.

Maybe it was the way he stood — like nothing could touch him. Maybe it was the eyes — sharp, unreadable, but never looking away from you. Or maybe… it was the way your blood was still boiling, and he looked like the kind of man who could handle the aftermath.

You didn’t know his name yet. Not the man under the mask. Not the soldier with too many scars and a history soaked in blood. Not the legend who moved like a ghost and fucked like he meant to ruin you.

Not yet. But something inside you already knew. This wasn’t over.

This wasn’t a one-night rage story. This was the start of something dangerous.

Unpredictable. Possibly illegal. Definitely unforgettable.

Because some are made of silence and steel. And some? Some are made of wildfire.

And when fire meets something cold and dark enough — it doesn’t die out.

It explodes.