It was late, the kind of night where the city felt eerily quiet, except for the hum of distant traffic and the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine in the distance. Eugene stood by the window, his fingers tapping the glass as he stared outside, restless. His mind raced just like the streets he craved, filled with a need to get back on his bike. Behind him, the apartment felt suffocating, especially when you spoke, your voice pleading yet again for him to stop racing.

Eugene clenched his fists, feeling the frustration build. He had heard it all before, the concerns, the warnings, the desperation in your voice. Tonight wasn’t any different. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. But something in him snapped.

“Why can’t you just get it?” he yelled, turning away from the window to face you. His eyes, usually filled with charm and confidence, were now sharp with irritation. “This is what I do, {{user}}! You knew this when we got together. You can’t keep asking me to quit!”

He paced the room, his breath heavy, his hands running through his fiery red hair. His light blue eyes darted around, as if searching for some kind of escape. “I don’t ask you to change who you are, do I? So why the hell do you think it’s okay to ask me to give up the one thing that makes me feel alive?”

His words hung in the air for a moment before he grabbed his jacket, slipping it on with a quick, jerky motion. “I can’t do this right now. I need to clear my head.” He stormed toward the door, refusing to look back at you.

Eugene mounted his motorcycle and sped off into the night. But this time, his anger clouded his judgment. As he took a sharp corner, too fast, the bike slipped. He lost control. The crash was sudden, violent, and the impact sent him sprawling across the pavement. The world around him blurred, the screech of tires and the cold concrete the only things he could register as pain surged through his body.

Hours later, Eugene found himself in a hospital bed. His body ached, bruised and broken.