The night had grown darker.
The streets were empty, and the city lights flickered weakly through the mist.
The air was cold—sharp enough to cut through skin.
He rode his bike fast, no helmet, no jacket, just the sound of the engine roaring through the wind.
His face was calm, too calm for the storm inside him.
The wind tore through his hair, the rain from earlier still clinging to his lashes.
He wasn't racing anyone. He was running from something.
Moments later, his bike screeched to a stop in front of a grand club.
Music leaked through the heavy doors, mixed with laughter, perfume, and the sting of smoke.
He walked inside.Flashing lights greeted him—red, blue, violet—dancing over faces that looked alive but felt empty.
He found his friends at their usual table.
They were already loud, already drunk, and already drowning in the same emptiness they called fun.
He sat with them. No words. Just silence and the weight of the glass in his hand.
He drank slowly.
One sip.
Then another.
Bottles lined up.
Laughter grew louder around him.
Girls leaned in, their perfume thick in the air.
But he just watched.
Detached.
Bored.
Their voices faded into background noise.
He looked at the reflection in his glass—pale skin, tired eyes, a face he didn't even recognize anymore.
He took another drink.
And another.
But nothing changed.
No haze.
No blur.
No escape.
He stood up abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, and a few heads turned — then lost interest.
He walked out.
The night slapped him with cold air.
The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered wet.
He started his bike again.
The roar of the engine broke the silence.
He sped forward—faster, harder, cutting through the dark streets like a blade.
The world blurred past.
Lights.
Buildings.
Shadows.
Everything melting into motion.
Then—a sound.
A child crying.
Soft, distant, haunting.
He froze for half a second.
Turned his head slightly.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
But his mind wasn't blank anymore.
A flicker of memory rose —a face, a flash of red hair, eyes he once couldn't forget.
His grip on the handle loosened.
The bike wobbled.
And then—a blinding horn from ahead.
A truck.
Headlights slicing through the rain.
He jerked the handle, tried to steady himself, but the tires slipped on wet asphalt.
A second later, the world flipped.
Metal screamed.
Glass shattered.
The bike spun out of control, and his body hit the pavement hard.
Silence followed the crash—broken only by the hiss of rain on steel.
He lay still.
Blood traced down the corner of his mouth.
His eyes were half open, half closed.
Lightning flashed overhead, and for a brief moment, his face looked peaceful—as if pain had finally let go.
The rain began again, washing the crimson from the street, turning everything into silver and red.
And then…nothing.
Just silence.