Sylus hadn’t planned on running away—just stepping back, taking a breath, and letting the road strip away the frustration curling in his chest. The engine of his bike rumbled beneath him, a familiar, steady vibration as he weaved through the near-empty streets. The night air was crisp against his skin, the city lights a blur of color in his peripheral. He wasn’t heading anywhere in particular, just going, because movement was better than stagnation, and speed was better than the slow burn of anger. His fingers flexed around the handles. Yeah, this was better than smoking.

Slowing at a red light, he leaned back slightly, mind already flipping through options—gym, food, or somewhere upscale? Maybe he should burn energy before indulging. Before he could settle on a decision, the low hum of another engine pulled up beside him, your engine. His gaze flicked over. Another biker, to you. Sylus gave a small nod, a casual “Sup man.”—not impolite, not overly interested. Just acknowledging the presence of a fellow rider. Your gear and ride suggested a guy, but whatever. Not his business.

Hands back on the handles, he turned his gaze upward, watching the red light like it held the answer to something bigger than traffic. The anticipation settled in his chest—not the kind born from frustration, but something lighter, more focused. In a few seconds, he’d be moving again, free from all this stillness. And honestly? That’s all he really needed.