The roar of the engine filled Kai's ears, louder than any warning he had ever known. The wind slapped his face, cold and biting, while the asphalt blurred into streaks beneath him.
He leaned forward, gripping the handlebars as if his life depended on it—because it did. Every curve of the road, every twist of the city street, pushed him closer to the edge. His heart pounded faster than the tires spinning beneath him.
He had always loved this feeling—the rush, the speed, the danger. It made him feel alive.
But this time… this time felt different.
A curve loomed ahead, sharper than expected. Too sharp.
I've got this, he told himself, instincts screaming as he leaned into it. Tires squealed against asphalt. The bike shuddered, skidding at a dangerous angle. His grip tightened, every muscle straining to wrestle control back.
For a second, he thought he had it.
Then the world betrayed him.
The tires slipped. The bike spun. Metal shrieked against concrete, sparks spraying like fireworks. Pain tore across his arm and leg as his body slammed against the unforgiving ground.
The world tilted, blurred, spun.
A flash of red. The smell of gasoline. The sound of metal grinding.
And then—blackness.
******
Pain.
That was the first thing he knew.
Sharp, electric, burning through every nerve. His body felt shattered, as if lightning had struck and refused to leave. He tried to move—only for agony to claw through him, forcing his jaw shut against a groan.
The second thing was confusion.
Where was he?
The last thing he remembered was speed, the road, the thrill of control.
Now, everything was white.
The sterile hum of machines filled the air, beeping in rhythm with his heart. The faint scent of disinfectant stung his nose. Lights glared overhead, too bright, too clinical.
A shadow leaned over him. A woman's voice, calm but firm.
"You're awake."
He forced his eyes open, squinting at the nurse standing by his bed. Clipboard in hand, professional smile, but her tone carried authority.
"Don't move too much," she said. "You've taken quite a fall."
"Kinda… sore," Kai croaked. His voice rasped like he hadn't used it in years.
The nurse scribbled something down. "Both legs are fractured. We've stabilized you, but you'll need a wheelchair for the next few weeks."
A wheelchair. The word struck harder than the crash.
Helpless. Immobile. Trapped.
The adrenaline of speed—the freedom of leaning into a curve and feeling the world bend with him—it was gone.
The door opened again. A doctor strode in, efficient and brisk. He scanned Kai's chart before speaking.
"Compound fractures in both legs," the doctor said. "Nothing internal, fortunately. We'll do surgery tomorrow, then bed rest. Painkillers will keep things manageable. Any questions?"
Kai shook his head. What was there to say? His throat ached with unspoken words.
"Good." The doctor closed the chart. "Rest. We'll check on you later."
And just like that, Kai was alone again—with only the machines, the sterile walls, and his thoughts for company.
******
Time crawled. Or maybe it rushed. He couldn't tell anymore. The steady rhythm of beeping monitors blurred into background noise. Nurses came and went, adjusting IVs, checking vitals, offering polite reassurances.
Kai stared at the ceiling, trying not to think, but his mind betrayed him.
He thought of the accident—not this one, but another.
A street years ago. A scream he couldn't forget. Blood against the pavement. Guilt that lodged in his chest and never left.
He couldn't even remember her face anymore. But the weight of it—that never faded.
And now, here he was again. Broken. Helpless.
Maybe fate was laughing.
The door opened softly.
"Excuse me… could you help me reach the nurse's station?"
The voice was quiet. Gentle.
Kai turned his head.
A girl stepped inside, moving carefully, her white cane tapping the floor in measured rhythm. She didn't look at him—she couldn't—but the quiet gravity around her pulled his attention all the same.
Her hair fell over her shoulders in a curtain of dark silk. Every movement was deliberate, practiced, the steps of someone who had learned to navigate a world she could not see.
The nurse turned immediately. "Can I help you?"
The girl shook her head softly. "No, thank you. I just… need a little guidance."
Her tone was calm, almost melodic, and something about it slowed the sterile chaos of the hospital. The monitors, the shuffling footsteps, the distant cries of other patients—all of it seemed to quiet in her presence.
Kai watched, silent. He didn't know her. She didn't know him. Yet something about her stirred something strange in his chest—a tightness, not of panic, but of recognition he couldn't explain.
The nurse returned to his side, adjusting his IV. "How's the pain now?"
"Manageable… I guess," Kai muttered.
"Don't push it," she warned. "You'll be bedridden for days. Then wheelchair, maybe crutches. Healing takes time."
Healing. He almost laughed.
From the corner, the faint tap of the cane echoed again. The girl moved steadily, her steps unhurried.
Kai closed his eyes, but the sound lingered, carving itself into his thoughts.
Days blurred together. Morning, night—it was all the same under sterile lights. He was fitted with heavy casts, their weight suffocating. His independence stripped away.
But amid the monotony, he noticed small things.
The rhythm of her cane.
The softness of her voice when she spoke to a nurse.
The way people unconsciously quieted when she passed, as if her calmness spread like ripples in still water.
He didn't know her name. Didn't know her story. Didn't even know her face.
But in a world of alarms, pain, and regret—her presence felt like air.
Kai shifted in bed, testing the limits of his cast. Pain shot through him, sharp enough to blur his vision. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself still.
Racing had given him freedom. Now it had given him chains.
Fate was cruel.
But fate also had a way of weaving threads long before one noticed.
Kai didn't know it yet. Neither did the girl.
But their stories had already begun to intertwine—one bound by guilt, one bound by darkness. Two broken lives, brushing past each other in the quiet halls of a hospital.
The first thread had been pulled.
And nothing would be the same.