I hand Mary over to Vera, with a slight anxiety, but knowing she is safe there. Then I begin preparing for the evening myself. I choose dark red pants, warm, thick, as if I want to protect myself with clothing. I put on a cozy blue sweater, in which I always feel a little calmer. The waiting… it is heavy, stifling. It seems to squeeze me from the inside, not letting me breathe. Time passes too slowly. Every minute feels like an eternity.
Finally, exactly at nine in the evening, the phone rings. That sound pierces the silence like a gunshot. It is him. Max. Although a new habit has already firmly settled in my mind — calling him Rebel Boy. Just like he used to call me Rebel Girl. When he says that word, and especially when he suddenly calls me that again, my heart fills with warmth, love, nostalgia. As if I become that girl again, in love to the point of pain. And maybe, despite everything, he still feels… at least something.
"Hello," I answer, trying to hide a slight nervousness in my voice.
"Come down, I'm waiting downstairs," he says curtly, without greeting.
I open my mouth to say something but hear only the dial tone. He has already hung up. As always — abrupt, in his own way, leaving behind not words, but a void that echoes in my chest.
Throwing a small backpack over my shoulders, inside my phone and wallet, like a shield against uncertainty, I leave the apartment. The evening sky is heavy, gray-blue, like a foreign mood. I feel a strange premonition growing in my chest — anxious, sticky, as if someone pulls a thread inside me, not letting me take a breath.
Rebel Boy stands by the motorcycle, motionless, confident and composed, as if he already knows I will come anyway. His gaze sweeps over me — steady, cold, studying. Without surprise, as if I am just a piece of his plan.
When I get closer, he silently tosses me a helmet. I barely manage to catch it. The metal is cool, burningly unfamiliar — just like his gaze. I feel my fingers go numb from the unexpected touch, and for a second I hold my breath.
"Are we going to ride it?" I ask, doubt in my voice, feeling everything tighten inside. Fear scratches from within, creeping up to my throat, not letting me swallow.
"Yes. Any problem with that? You seem to be afraid of heights, not speed," he smirks, not even looking at me. His voice — enveloping, but with a sting, as always. In his tone is that familiar reproach, painfully familiar. The one I almost get used to. Almost. But not completely. It still hurts.
"No problem at all. Let's go," I challenge, though inside everything protests, screams, begs to stop. But I can't back down. Not in front of him. Not in front of myself.
While I put on the helmet, awkwardly hiding my trembling, he has already mounted his bike. Calmly, confidently, as if everything follows a prewritten script. His script. I am just an episode in it.
I sit behind him and, holding his waist, press myself to his back. His warmth immediately seeps through my skin. My heart leaps, racing — not only from fear, but from the closeness, too revealing, too desired.
Max turns the key and starts the engine. The motorcycle roars like a wild beast, awakened after a long sleep. We take off, and everything around blurs into a single smear. With every second, the wind grows stronger, lashing my face, biting my cheeks through the visor. My heart beats so loudly, it seems to want to escape. I cling to him, as if he is my only anchor in this mad ride. Almost pressed into his back, hoping he won't notice how my hands tremble.
But in this terror, there is something… alluring. A forbidden pleasure. The chance to hold him like this — without words, without excuses, without fear of being misunderstood. I feel him. His scent. His strength. His silent determination. And it wraps me in a strange, quiet happiness.
At some point, I really forget how fast we are going. It slips away. I get lost in sensations. In the rhythm of his breathing. In the way his muscles move under his jacket. All of it feels more real than the road, than the sky, than myself.
"You can let go now, coward," he smirks when we stop.
I reluctantly release my hands, but Rebel Boy removes them himself — carefully, almost tenderly. With a strange gentle impatience. I don't have time to understand whether it is a gesture of care… or a protection from his own feelings. A tear stings the corner of my eye — whether from the wind, or because it is over. Or because it hasn't even begun.
Max skillfully jumps off the bike and, approaching me, holds out his hand. His fingers are warm, strong. I place my weakening, trembling ones into them and let him help. I stand — and immediately sway. The ground under my feet feels unstable, as if I am falling again. Fear, weakness, relief — all mix in one wave, engulfing me. I grab him, hug him tightly, and for a moment I feel lighter. As if his hands are my reality. But he gently, almost tenderly, removes my hands. Not harshly. Not abruptly. He just sets a boundary.
"You okay?" he asks with a slight smirk, but in his gaze flickers a real worry.
Max lifts me in his arms — easily, as if I am a feather. He holds me close like he hasn't in this month, and carries me to a bench. In that moment I feel vulnerable… and needed. It scares me more than the speed.
"Stay here, it will get better soon," he says, lowering me and stepping back.
I sit, trying to catch my breath. My hands tremble, as after a storm. My head spins, as if I am still racing down the road. And my heart… it seems to remain with him — pulsating, alive, fragile.
Max stands a little apart, smoking, staring into nothing — as if he has built an invisible wall from the world. In his gaze, a heavy, deep emptiness freezes. I watch him through lowered lashes, as if afraid to disturb the silence between us. Every gesture, every movement of the fingers gripping the cigarette, seems slowed, precise, almost painfully familiar.
Every puff of smoke is like a frame from someone else's film — beautiful, misty, tinged with sadness and incompleteness. A beautiful scene. Distant, like a dream you cannot hold but do not want to forget. Yet painfully familiar. Because in this scene — there is him. With all his detachment, his fatigue, something subtly familiar in his face. And because in this scene — there is me. Sitting on the bench next to him, silently admiring, with a heart tightening from tenderness and strange, almost sharp longing. I am in that silence, in his shadow, in every wisp of smoke that dissolves into the air between us.
"What is this place?" I ask, looking around, my voice carrying anxiety hidden under a mask of curiosity.
It is outside the city — a wilderness where the asphalt ends, and the silence seems to hold the air in tension. Everywhere are old, half-ruined abandoned buildings, like the dead skeletons of the past. From the building behind me come some shouts and dull sounds, like hits — they echo and send chills down my spine.
"Soon you'll find out, be patient," my beloved replies, his voice calm, almost indifferent, and a chill runs down my back because of it.
Someone steps out of the shadows — and I immediately recognize Tim.
"Hey, little brother!" he says to Max, and they hug tightly, as if they haven't seen each other for a long time. There is a lot of strength, tension in that movement — as if something more is behind this friendship.
"Hey, hey," Max replies, his voice softening slightly, but his gaze remains just as cold.
"Brought her along again?" Tim points at me, and there is contempt in his voice, as if I am not a person, but just extra baggage.
"Yes, she's going to be a spectator today," Max says without particular intonation, as if my presence doesn't matter.
"Too bad, I'd like to see her in action," Tim laughs, and they both laugh, their laughter rough, predatory, as if I am a funny toy.
"Why is she sitting over there?" that idiot asks, nodding toward me, as if speaking about furniture rather than a person.
"She got dizzy after the ride on my dragon," Rebel Boy says with a lazy smirk, patting his motorcycle. His voice carries bravado, his eyes — fire.
"She's really weak, isn't she?" the gang leader chuckles, not even trying to hide the mockery.
"How would you know what I'm like? As if you're the strongest here," I can't hold back. My voice shakes, not from fear — from anger, from bitterness that they don't take me seriously.
"She looking for trouble?" Tim asks Max with a smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly like a predator before a jump.
"Don't pay attention to her, like I do," Max says, putting out his cigarette. His words strike my heart like a sharp knife — cold and merciless. It becomes hard to breathe, as if the air suddenly thickens, as if I am drowning.
"Rebel Girl, are you going to keep pretending to be helpless over there?" he turns to me again, his voice carrying irritation, fatigue, or maybe something deeper. "Get up. Let's go."
I don't argue. I just obey. Not out of fear — out of inner numbness. I am fine with it now; I collect myself and walk toward him. Something inside seems to clench into a fist.
"Tim, how much longer? I'm getting impatient," Max asks, jumping in place, swinging his fists, and in that sharp movement, in the impatience — there is a flash of childish joy mixed with adrenaline.
"Less than fifteen minutes. So you arrived just in time," Tim replies, still ignoring me, as if I am invisible, as if I simply don't exist. He only looks at Max, only speaks to him.
"Lead us," Max commands Tim, his voice solid as stone.
"Let's go," he replies, again as if speaking only to him. His indifference is so demonstrative that everything inside me clenches — from hurt, from anger, from the feeling of being unnecessary.
We go inside. The thick, heavy air seems to hang in the space, filled with the hum of voices, the smell of sweat and faint metal. I immediately grab my beloved by the edge of his T-shirt, tightly, almost convulsively, like a drowning person clings to a life ring — just not to get lost, not to dissolve in this noisy chaos.
There are a huge number of people here, mostly men. Their faces — focused, animated, their eyes — excitement and anticipation. At first, I can't understand where we are or why. Everything seems foreign, hostile, oppressive. But as we move closer to the center of the building, squeezing through the excited crowd, I see what everyone is gathered around — and it terrifies me.