The world felt like it had flipped upside down.

Your bike lay wrecked on the side of the freeway, sparks still fizzing from beneath the twisted frame. The sharp scent of gasoline clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood and burnt rubber. You stumbled back, hands trembling, pacing in small, frantic circles as the sting of road rash lit your nerves on fire. Skin scraped raw, adrenaline screaming through your veins, your breath came in broken sobs.

You were crying—loud, uncontrollable, wounded cries that echoed across the lanes. Screaming from the pain. Screaming because no one stopped.

Car after car flew past. Some slowed just enough to gawk at the wreckage before speeding off, indifferent. Not one pulled over. Not one asked if you were okay.

Then, through the roar of traffic, came the low growl of a motorcycle engine.

A sleek black Ducati pulled to a sudden stop on the shoulder. The rider—dressed in fitted black gear with a reflective full-face helmet—swung off the bike and ran toward you.

“Hey! Cazzo, are you hurt?” His accent was thick, Italian. Rough around the edges. Real.

You turned, sobbing, clutching your arm, your knees shaking from the impact. He was already in front of you, hands hovering but not touching—like he didn’t want to cause more pain.

“Shh… calma, okay? Sit. Sit down.” He gently guided you to the guardrail, voice soft but steady. “Breathe for me, Baby..”

He yanked off his helmet. Tousled dark hair fell into his face, olive skin flushed from the rush. One eye was a deep brown, the other a pale, haunting green. Heterochromia. And yet… it wasn’t his eyes that calmed you. It was how he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered.

“I’m Cassian,” he said. “And I won’t leave you here. I promise.”