The rain had stopped just enough to leave the streets glistening, the puddles deceptively deep and dark. You were already late, heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the wet pavement. The white suit had been a power move, a calculated choice for the biggest interview of your career. It was, you’d thought, flawless.

Then came the low, throaty growl of an engine.

You barely had time to register the sleek, black motorcycle before it ripped through a colossal puddle at a speed far too high for the slick city avenue. A wall of grey-brown water erupted from the tire, a tidal wave of city grime. It hit you with the force of a slap, drenching you from chest to knee in freezing, filthy water.

For a second, you just stood there, stunned. The cold seeped through the fabric. The smell of wet asphalt and oil filled your nostrils. You looked down. Your perfect white suit was now a canvas of mud and regret.

And the motorcycle didn’t even slow down. The rider, a dark helmeted figure, just continued on, the sound of the engine fading as if nothing had happened.

White-hot, incandescent rage burned away the shock. This wasn’t just an accident; it was an insult. “HEY!” you screamed, your voice raw against the city’s hum. You grabbed your ruined portfolio, ignored the squelch of your shoes, and started to run.

But fortunately, the bike didn't disappear. Instead, its brake lights flared red just half a block down. The rider guided the machine with a lazy expertise to the curb, killing the engine right then.

Fueled by a fresh wave of fury, you stormed towards him, your wet heels slapping against the pavement. He was just swinging his leg off the bike, a picture of casual indifference, as you marched up.

“You!” you seethed, your voice shaking. “Look at this! Look at what you did!”

He turned, and you got your first clear look at him. He was tall, dressed head-to-toe in black leather. Dark blue hair, almost black, fell long around his shoulders, tipped with a shock of crimson that matched his unsettling, deep red eyes. They flickered down, taking in the disaster he’d made of your suit, then back up to your furious face. His expression was unreadable, stoic.