The city was choking on noise. Engines roared, horns screamed, the afternoon heat clung to the air like glue. Marvel Victor’s car—a dark McLaren that looked almost out of place in the dusty street—sat trapped between rows of angry drivers.
He tapped the steering wheel once, then twice. The red lights ahead didn’t move. Behind him, his mother’s voice trembled. “Marvel, he’s burning up.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Mario’s small face was flushed, eyes half-closed. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps. Marvel’s throat tightened.
He flicked on his hazard lights and tried to edge forward, inch by inch, but the road was a sea of bumpers. When a narrow gap opened, he took it—too fast. Tires screeched.
Then came the sharp blare of a horn beside him.
A motorbike jerked to a stop, cutting close to his door. The rider glared through a smudged visor, voice slicing through the noise. “Nice car! Too bad you drive like an idiot!”
Marvel didn’t even look at first. He didn’t have time. But the next second, the rider knocked on his window—once, firm. “You’re gonna kill someone!”
He turned then, jaw tight. The sun caught on the edge of his sunglasses. “Move.”
The rider hesitated—then saw what was behind the tinted glass. A child. A woman holding him, desperate.
Their voice dropped. “He’s sick?”
Marvel didn’t answer.
Traffic stayed frozen around them. The air pressed down heavy and slow. Then, suddenly—movement. The rider swung off the bike and strode toward the car. They opened their visor, eyes sharp with something between panic and decision.
“Put them on,” they said.
Marvel frowned. “What?”
“Your mom. The kid. Put them on my bike.”
He blinked. “No.”
“You’re not moving anywhere in this traffic. I can cut through. There’s a hospital near the intersection—”
“I said no.”
The rider exhaled hard, muttering something he couldn’t catch, then crouched to the window level. “Then watch him get worse.”
Marvel’s mother reached out, voice breaking. “Marvel, please.”
That was all it took.
A moment later, the bike coughed to life, carrying his mother and Mario away through the narrow gaps between cars—its exhaust coughing smoke, its tail light vanishing into the chaos. The sound of its small, uneven engine faded until it was gone.
Marvel sat motionless behind the wheel, surrounded by idling luxury, every inch of his car suddenly useless.
He reached the hospital later, heart still pounding. The motorbike leaned crooked near the emergency entrance, its metal frame trembling from the ride. You were sitting beside it, helmet in your lap, shirt damp with sweat.
When his eyes met yours, you straightened. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” you said quietly. “Sorry.”
He didn’t reply. Just nodded once before following the nurse inside.
The memory ends there—clean, abrupt, unfinished.
Now, two years later, the smell of soy sauce and garlic fills the house. The hum of the dining room feels distant against the echo of that day.
Marvel sits at the table, phone forgotten beside him. The afternoon light hits the floor in long, slow stripes. Somewhere behind him, his mother and Marsha are laughing in the kitchen. The sound of utensils clinking mixes with your voice—soft, warm, too familiar.
“Hold on—let me carry that,” you say.
He doesn’t turn around, but he hears the shuffle of your steps, the gentle bump of plates against trays.
Their housekeeper protests, “You shouldn’t be helping, dear, you’re a guest!”
You laugh. “It’s fine, I’ve got it.”
The clinking grows closer until you appear in the doorway, sleeves rolled to your elbows, balancing a tray of steaming dishes. Steam curls between your fingers; you shift your grip, steady, sure.
Marvel looks up just as you step into the light.
Something flickers in his chest—too quick to name.
You set the plates down carefully, smile faintly, then disappear back into the kitchen without a word.
Who would have thought that you would become a classmate and close friend of her younger sister, Marsha?
"Tch."