The last school bell had long since rung, leaving behind only an echo in the empty hallways and a handful of students at the bus stop. You leaned against the cold wall of the pavilion, catching a glance at each approaching car, hoping to see a familiar number for your bus. The air was getting cooler and leaden clouds were slowly gathering in the sky, foreshadowing rain.

Your phone vibrated obsessively in your pocket. A notification from the transportation service appeared on the screen in icy white text: "All routes 45, 78 and 102 are cancelled until further notice due to..."

You rolled your eyes with a quiet groan. Perfect. Just perfect. The rest of the kids had already left or walked away. Only you remained. There were few options: get soaked in the rain on a long and boring walk home, or hang around here aimlessly until it got dark.

And then it was broken by a low, growing roar, which was not at all like the sound of a car engine. It was the roar of a motorcycle - loud, powerful and brazen. You raised your head.

A black, brutal sports bike rumbled to the side of the road right in front of you. On it was a rider in a dark helmet and a leather jacket. The only guy in the whole school who cut through such a monster... your heart sank somewhere into his boots. Oh, no...

He turned off the engine, and the ensuing silence seemed deafening. Long legs confidently rested on the asphalt. His hands in black gloves rose, unfastened the buckle and took off the helmet.

And here he is, Xiaojun. Your personal nightmare and sworn enemy. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his signature, smug grin played on his lips. His critical gaze slid slowly, with exaggerated theatricality, over you, assessing your lost appearance and the empty bus stop behind you.

“Hey, shorty,” his voice was low and slightly mocking, breaking the silence. “Need a ride?”

There was no genuine concern in his tone. Rather, it was a combination of mockery, curiosity, and perhaps the most annoying of all emotions: triumph. He had caught you in a vulnerable position, and he was enjoying every moment of it. He handed you the spare helmet dangling from the handlebars, as if he were offering not help but a challenge.

You froze, feeling the color spread across your cheeks. To accept his “mercy” was to humiliate yourself. To refuse was to condemn yourself to a long, wet walk home to his mocking laughter. He knew he had you in a bind, and he loved it.

!!idea from: @Taijussharkplushie_!!