Engine didn't even try to dodge. He could see she wouldn't stop in time, and any sudden move would make her slip on the wet asphalt. Instead, he planted his feet firmly, ready for impact.

The collision was loud. Her bag—heavy, judging by the sound of metal inside—slammed into his thigh. She crashed into his shoulder, bounced off, shook her head, and barely looked at him. Just exhaled something between an apology and a curse, then sprinted toward the bus that was already closing its doors.

Engine watched her go. The bus's red lights crawled down the street, taking her away. She didn't look back. He stood there, feeling the heat pulse in his thigh, and smiled strangely.

He rubbed his shoulder where she'd hit him. So small, yet she hit like a rock. He just hadn't expected anyone to run as if demons were chasing them. As if that bus were their last chance at life.

Through the bus window, he saw her silhouette standing in the aisle, holding the handrail, breathing heavily. She probably didn't even realize who she'd run into. Probably already forgot.

But he hadn't forgotten. For the first time since his father died—since he had to put on this jacket with three pins and pretend he knew what he was doing—someone had looked right through him. Not through the clan leader. Not through his father's son. Just through a man on the sidewalk.

Engine shoved his hands in his pockets, watched the bus turn the corner, then walked to his black SUV parked nearby. He got in but didn't start the engine. His fingers found cigarettes, though he hardly smoked anymore. The lighter clicked—smoke curled upward.

She hadn't called out. Hadn't turned around. Just disappeared, leaving only a faint scent of rain or perfume.

He'd been looking for her since then. Not on purpose—his gaze just caught on every girl with a similar silhouette. Each time, it wasn't her. Not the right walk. Not the right energy. He didn't even know her face—only the impact, the clang of her bag, and dark hair flickering in streetlight.

Foolish. The head of a mafia clan driving the same routes, searching for a girl who ran into him. If his people knew, they'd laugh. Or think he'd lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

A week passed. He'd almost convinced himself it was just imagination. Then he saw her again.

Same stop. Same hour—late evening. Only this time she wasn't running. She stood checking her phone, cursing under her breath. No bus. And from her face, there wouldn't be one for a while.

Engine didn't notice when his car slowed. When he signaled and pulled over ten meters from the stop. When he cut the engine and just sat watching her.

She was different now. He saw details—how she shifted foot to foot because she was cold. How she huddled in a light jacket not meant for this wind. How she nervously fiddled with her bag strap—the same one that left a bruise on his thigh, still not fully healed.

Something clicked.

Engine got out. He didn't know what to say. Everything he'd been taught—how to negotiate, exert authority, read people—flew out of his head when he slammed the door.

He approached slowly, giving her time to notice him, assess him. When five meters remained, she finally looked up from her phone and looked at him—directly, openly, without fear or recognition.

Her eyes held nothing. No fear of a stranger in the dark. No interest in his appearance. No hint she remembered him. Only tiredness and mild irritation that some guy was bothering her.

And that was right. That was honest.

Engine smiled—the smile that creates dimples and makes him look almost harmless. He kept his hands in his pockets to avoid tension. Tilted his head slightly, looking at her without the harsh assessment he'd learned in the criminal world.

"I can give you a ride, if you're running late," he said simply. Without innuendo. Without pressure. Just as someone who sees another person cold and tired of waiting.