The night air was thick with the scent of salt and asphalt, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs barely audible over the hum of cicadas. The old highway cut through the jungle like a scar, twisting and turning down toward the sleepy coastal town where no one was waiting for you. No one ever was.

Your motorcycle a battered Honda with mismatched parts and peeling stickers rumbled beneath you, the only thing that ever felt truly yours. The engine roared as you pushed it harder, weaving between the moonlit palms. You weren’t just riding tonight; you were running. From the house where your brothers only saw you as a burden. From your mother’s cold silence. From the town that never missed a chance to remind you what a mistake you were.

Your partner’s place was far, past the edge of town where the roads stretched out like veins, away from all the expectations and whispered insults. You kept your AirPods in, drowning out the world with music. The sound of the oncoming car never reached you.

It hit you like a hammer to glass.

Metal crunched. Bone met asphalt. The world spun as you flew, weightless for half a second before slamming into the pavement. The impact ripped through your skin shredding, muscle tearing as you skidded across the road. The heat of friction burned through your jacket, your jeans, your skin. Fifty feet later, you came to a stop, gasping as pain swallowed you whole.

The car, a black sedan, old and rust-eaten didn’t stop. It veered, tires shrieking, then crashed into a ditch. You could hear the engine sputtering, the driver groaning.

You barely moved, but instinct pushed you toward the road’s edge. Blood slicked your hands, leaving a trail from your body, gravel lodged in your palms. Breathing was fire in your ribs. Headlights appeared in the distance, then voices someone yelling, footsteps pounding closer.