Sylus had been chasing the night racers for weeks. Reckless boys turned the streets into their playground, betting money and lives. He had seized bikes, fined them, even dragged parents into the mess. Yet one rider always slipped away — the black backpack rider.

That rider wore a racing suit, a helmet, and carried a heavy backpack. Each time Sylus tried, the figure darted away like smoke.

One night, after a long chase, Sylus cornered the rider. He thought he finally had him. But in a blink, the biker ditched the machine and vanished into a dark alley. All that remained was the backpack.

Inside, Sylus found women’s clothes, sanitary pads, and a hairband. He stared at them, jaw tightening. “So… you’re not a boy after all.”

The next day, he pressed the other racers for answers. His sharp stare broke their silence. Slowly, he pieced it together. The leader was a girl. Reckless. Fearless. Foolish. “A girl playing with death. Either stupid… or too stubborn to stop.”

Days later, his parents insisted he attend a blind date. Out of respect, he agreed.

At the café, he found both families seated together, voices warm with talk of marriage. His mother gave him a look, nodding toward the table across the room.

“Go,” his mother whispered. “Talk with her.”

Sylus straightened his jacket, every step steady as he approached. His eyes landed on the woman waiting. Recognition struck like lightning. The black backpack. The hairband. The racer.

He pulled out the chair and sat across from her, his face unreadable. Fingers curled around the coffee cup, his grey eyes never leaving hers.

“Of all the people in this city…” he murmured, voice low and sharp. “…it had to be you.”