"It wasn't about what you were born with. That part was luck. What mattered was what you did with it."
Sam had always liked that line, but nowadays, it felt like bullshit.
The metal doors of the underground sports center groaned open behind him, spilling out heat, sweat, and people. Cold autumn air hit his face like a slap, sharp enough to sting the inside of his nose—already bloody.
Reality, right on schedule.
People flowed past him, laughing, talking, alive in that post-training high. A couple of the guys clapped his shoulder on the way out, muttering good fights, see you tomorrow. The girls were worse—one of them reached up and ruffled his hair like he was a cute little dog.
"Good effort," she said, smiling like she meant it.
Yeah.
Effort.
Sam didn't react. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, letting them pass.
Cars beeped open one after another. Doors slammed. Engines started. People left in waves, heading somewhere warm, somewhere easy.
Sam on the other hand just pulled his cap lower, adjusted the strap of his worn gym bag digging into his shoulder through his puffy black jacket, and tried to ignore the dull ache in his ribs.
He looked to his bike and sighed. Riding through the dark and cold autumn weather was not something he ever looked forward to.
Then the sound of footsteps came from behind him.
He didn't need to turn.
Eric, standing tall like some Nordic god, dressed like a rich kid, stepped out into the night like he owned it.
No bruises. No swelling. Not even breathing hard. Just loose, relaxed—like the last match in the ring hadn't been a fight, just a warm-up he got bored of.
Girls followed him out, laughing a little louder than before.
Of course they did.
Sam glanced sideways.
Yeah.
Perfect.
That was the word, because even when standing still, Eric looked like he was doing something right.
Then, without asking, Eric dropped an arm over Sam's head like he was leaning on a fence.
The size difference was ridiculous.
"Don't sulk, little hobbit," Eric said, casual as ever, fingers messing up Sam's hair. "Go home, cry a bit, get it out of your system. Come back tomorrow less shit. Nationals are next week—I need you in one piece ok. After all, we have to look good for the cameras when I beat you again."
The girls laughed.
Of course they did.
Sam shoved his arm off. "Fuck off."
Eric grinned. "Hey, I'm serious. I don't wanna fight a half-dead guy. That's boring."
"Yeah?" Sam muttered. "You won't have to worry about that."
"Mm." Eric rolled his shoulders. "We'll see."
Then Eric tilted his head slightly.
"You want a ride?"
Sam looked up.
For a split second—before he could stop it—something like hope flickered.
"…yeah?"
But then Eric cracked.
"Bro—what the fuck?" he snorted, shaking his head. "You really thought I'd let you sleep over? Sorry, but I ain't into that kind of stuff, man. No homo."
The girls burst out laughing.
Sam felt heat rise up his neck, sharp and instant.
"Wow, chill out man. it's just a joke," Eric added, already turning away, like it didn't matter. "Although if anyone's allowed to come then it's them."
He jerked his chin toward the girls.
They blinked.
"…me?" both of the girls asked in unison.
Eric smiled like it was already decided. "Yeah, you. Both of you. Car's warm, although it's a bit cramped. But don't worry, I won't bite, I'm a gentleman."
A pause.
Then, with a smirk—
"Mostly."
They laughed again—half awkward, half flattered.
"Okay… yeah," one of them said.
Of course.
They went to him like it was natural.
Because it was.
Eric slipped an arm around them, easy, effortless. No hesitation. No doubt. Like the world had already agreed to this before it happened.
Sam just watched it all and didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
They reached the car.
Lamborghini Huracán, red paint, low and clean.
Everything else in the parking lot suddenly looked like garbage.
The door lifted up smooth and quiet—like it didn't need attention.
Still got it.
Eric helped them in, shut the door, then glanced back.
"Same time tomorrow?"
Sam shrugged. "Yeah."
Eric smirked. "Good. Don't get yourself killed before that. I want a proper fight."
"Worried I might win?"
Eric laughed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Then—quieter, just for a second—
"Take care, yeah? And don't panic about the market. Next week's gonna move big. Just hold, and believe in it man."
Something real slipped through there, just for a moment.
Eric slid into the car.
The engine came alive—low, controlled, expensive.
And just like that he was gone.The cars sounds quickly fading into the distance.
The parking lot emptied after that. One car at a time. One life at a time. Normal people. Normal problems.
Soon, it was just Sam. Standing there with his hands in his pockets.
He looked at the road where the Lamborghini disappeared.
Then at his bike.
Cheap frame. Crooked handle. Chain that sounded like it was about to file a complaint.
"…yeah, I'm probably not going to be picking up any girls with this."
He sighed and pulled out his phone.
Cracked corner. Slight lag.
Messages from his McDonald's manager—ignored.
He opened his portfolio instead. And there it was, his precious gains. Just under two hundred thousand.
He stared at it with slight admiration. It had been many years of grinding, failing, learning and trying again.
He had started from nothing.
And still—
His brain did the math.
"Thirty percent…"
A pause.
"…no. Thirty-four."
Thats how much he would be taxed every time, every single time he decided to make a move. So all he could do was look at it, and wait for the big numbers to come.
"Yeah. Thanks for that."
Two hundred thousand suddenly didn't seem so big, as it would drop fast.
One-thirty.
Maybe even less after all the other expenses, minus what he had already invested.
But it was still good progress, something real.
Still nowhere near enough.
His eyes drifted back to the road.
That car alone was like, Four hundred thousand. Easy.
More than everything he had.
Just… like that.
Sam exhaled slowly.
"Right."
Because that was the difference.
He had to built his way up.
While Eric started there.
Same game.
Different starting line.
Investing was percentages.
Everyone knew that.
But percentages only mattered if you had something to scale.
Didn't matter if you doubled ten euros.
Still just twenty.
Sam stacked scraps—McDonald's shifts, late nights, bouncing drunk idiots out of bars—and turned it into something real.
Eric got handed a six-figure start at sixteen.
Made a few moves, and instantly his numbers exploded.
They had the same rules, but different reality's.
Sam looked at his screen.
Then locked it.
"No point whining."
He shoved it back into his pocket, pulled his cap down tighter.
"Complaining won't fix shit," he muttered. "You either move… or you don't."
He fished the key out of his pocket, fingers stiff from the cold, and crouched slightly as he unlocked the chain wrapped around the frame. The metal clicked loose with a dull, tired sound, same as always. He pulled the chain free, tossed it into his bag, then grabbed the handlebars and swung himself onto the saddle in one smooth motion. A push, a shift of weight—and the bike rolled forward, wheels crunching lightly before catching the smoother pavement.
Then he was moving.
Out into the cold.
The city had already gone quiet—not dead, just… distant. Like everything that mattered had already happened somewhere else, behind warm walls and closed doors. The streets stretched out ahead of him in long, empty lines, streetlights casting soft yellow pools that faded into shadow between them. Here and there, a car passed, tires hissing over damp asphalt, but even those felt removed—like background noise to something bigger he wasn't part of.
Most people were already home.
He wasn't.
He pedaled steadily, breath fogging in front of him, the cold air biting into his cheeks, slipping through the seams of his jacket, settling into his hands. Autumn in the Nordics—no snow yet, but close enough that you could feel it waiting. The kind of cold that didn't hit all at once, just crept in slowly until it owned you.
A bus rolled past on a side street, mostly empty, lights too bright for the handful of passengers inside. Sam glanced at it as it went by, catching a glimpse of the driver—older, dark-skinned, maybe Indian, maybe something else—one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it as he sang to himself.
Soft. Off-key. But steady.
Like he didn't give a shit who heard him.
"Yeah," Sam muttered under his breath as he rode past. "Guy's got it figured out."
Just sing your problems away.
Simple.
Easy.
The kind of easy that came when you didn't have anything riding on you.
His grip tightened slightly on the handlebars as his thoughts circled back—like they always did.
Money.
That song slipped into his head again, uninvited.
I don't have money on my mind…
Sam let out a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh.
"Yeah. Must be fucking nice."
Doing it for love.
Right.
Maybe if you already had everything, you could afford to say shit like that. Maybe when you didn't have to think about rent, or food, or whether the numbers on your screen were enough to actually change anything.
His legs kept moving, steady rhythm, chain turning under him as the city thinned out around him.
The farm came to mind.
Fields stretching out under grey skies. Cold soil. Machinery that was older than he was, breaking down at the worst possible times. Bills stacked on the kitchen table. Numbers that didn't care how hard you worked.
Farms in the south of the country weren't doing great. Everyone knew that. Costs up. Prices down. Subsidies barely keeping things afloat. You worked all year just to break even—if you were lucky.
And they had taken him in anyway.
Fed him.
Given him a place to stay when he had nothing.
That part stuck.
That part mattered.
He leaned forward slightly, pushing harder, the bike picking up speed.
"Almost there," he muttered. "Just a bit more."
A million.
That was the line he'd drawn.
Not because it was some insane number—but because it was barely enough.
Enough to clear debts. Enough to stabilize the farm. Enough to maybe—maybe—build something that didn't collapse the second something went wrong.
People talked about a million like it was life-changing money.
It wasn't.
Not here.
Not if you actually had responsibilities.
Not if you wanted land, equipment, a future.
It was just… breathing room.
And even that felt far away.
"Just one run," he muttered quietly. "One proper run where everything doesn't go to shit."
Crypto charts. Late nights. Watching candles move like they meant something.
"Yeah… any day now," he huffed. "To the moon, right?"
The path shifted as he veered off the main road, tires moving from asphalt to gravel, the sound changing to a dull, steady crunch beneath him. To his left, a tall wildlife fence ran alongside the highway, cars beyond it flashing past in streaks of white and red. To his right, trees and bushes pressed in closer, dark shapes swallowing the edges of the city, though faint lights still flickered through in the distance.
Streetlamps stood at intervals, each one casting a small circle of light before fading back into shadow.
Sam rode through it on autopilot.
Legs moving. Hands steady.
Mind somewhere else.
Food.
Sleep.
Work.
"Yeah… great plan," he muttered. "Get home, eat oats like a champion, pass out, wake up, do it all again."
Living the dream.
He adjusted his grip slightly, shoulders relaxing just a fraction—
Then something cut through the quiet, a sharp woman's scream.
Sam immediately slowed down and stopped, head turning slightly toward the trees to his right.
"…huh what was that?"
He listened, but heard nothing. Just wind. Distant cars to his left past the wildlife fence. The hum of the city far behind him.
He shook his head.
"Yeah, probably nothing."
He pushed forward again, he didn't have time for this, each minute he used was a minute less of sleep and already he was looking at like 7 hours of sleep if he was fast, but just then it came back.
Clear this time.
A scream.
Sam stopped completely.
One foot dropped to the ground, gravel crunching under his shoe as he turned toward the sound, eyes narrowing into the darkness.
"…okay, yeah. That's not nothing."
For a second, he just stood there, staring into the trees. Something moved—or maybe it didn't. Hard to tell in the half-light.
He pulled his phone out instinctively, checking the time.
Late.
Too late.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered. "Got work tomorrow."
A pause.
A long breath.
"…fuck."
The phone disappeared back into his pocket. He wanted to believe that this was nothing, just another girl doing some tiktok video or some random b-bullshit, but he was going to go check it out anyway.
Of course.
Because apparently, he didn't know how to just mind his own business.
He rolled the bike off the path, pushing it into the bushes, tucking it deep enough that it wouldn't be visible from the road.
"Stay," he muttered. "Don't get stolen. That'd really complete the night."
Then he moved.
One step over the ditch, boots hitting damp ground with a dull thud, the cold seeping through instantly. Branches brushed and scratched against his jacket as he pushed forward, cutting through the trees toward the sound, guided more by instinct than sight.
It didn't take long.
The darkness ahead began to thin, shadows breaking apart as faint light bled through the gaps between the trunks. Another few steps—and then he was out.
A playground.
Sam slowed, taking it in, and immediately felt irritation creep in.
Of course it was one of these.
One of those awkward hybrid setups—bright rubber flooring laid out in clean, artificial colors, climbing frames and slides for kids scattered across one side, and right beside them, metal bars, pull-up stations, and outdoor gym equipment like someone thought it was a good idea to merge two completely different worlds into one space.
He stared at it for a moment, unimpressed.
"…yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Brilliant."
Because apparently nothing screamed great workout environment like trying to do pull-ups while some snot-nosed kid stood three feet away, staring at you like you were an alien.
"Yeah, no thanks."
The thought almost pulled a snort out of him.
Almost.
Because then he saw them.
A small figure pinned against the climbing wall, boxed in by two larger silhouettes dressed in black.
One stood a step back, phone raised, recording. The other leaned in close—too close—one hand gripping her jaw, forcing her face up, the other tugging at the zipper of her jacket, dragging it open inch by inch. Beneath it, her cropped top clung tightly to her frame, the outline of her body impossible to miss even in the dim light.
She flinched.
Every touch made her flinch.
His hand slid over her leggings and across her stomach, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Upward. Possessive. Testing boundaries she clearly wasn't giving him. When it reached her chest, he squeezed—hard—and laughed when she winced, like her pain was part of the joke.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
He noticed. Of course he did.
And instead of stopping, he wiped them away with mock gentleness, thumb brushing her skin like he was doing her a favor.
"Come on," he murmured, voice low and sickeningly casual. "Relax. I'm not gonna mess up that pretty face of yours, as long as you behave. Trust me girl, you'll enjoy it."
She wasn't fighting him.
Her body stayed there, tense and rigid, like she'd already decided resistance would only make things worse.
"No… please… just—stop," she whispered, turning her head away as he tried to pull her into a kiss.
The two of them laughed, ugly, loud laughs.
The sound echoed off the empty playground like it belonged there.
His grip tightened again, rough this time, forcing her back into place as he leaned in.
But just then, Sam emerged onto the playground.
"Hey."
The word cut through it all, sharp and sudden.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Back off."
Both men jolted slightly, heads snapping toward the voice.
The girl's eyes opened, wide and glassy, locking onto him.
For a split second—
Hope.
Then it flickered.
Because what she saw wasn't some towering figure or obvious threat.
Just a guy.
Shorter than the others. Puffy jacket. Cap pulled low. From a distance, he looked like some kid who'd taken a wrong turn and wandered into something way out of his league.
The hope in her expression collapsed.
Sam saw it immediately and felt his manly pride collapse.
…seriously, couldn't you atleast pretend to be happy to see me?
The taller one snorted, lowering his phone just enough to get a better look. "What the hell is this?"
The other tilted his head, grin spreading wider. "You serious right now?" he said, amused. "Get lost, shortie. This doesn't concern you."
Sam hesitated.
Just for a second.
Did I—misread this?
Then the guy's arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his side like she belonged there.
"She's mine," he said, almost proudly. "Got that? So take the hint and leave."
The girl didn't move.
Didn't nod.
Didn't confirm anything.
Her head stayed lowered, shoulders tense, eyes fixed somewhere on the ground.
Not comfortable.
Not okay.
But not fighting either.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Sam stood there, caught between doubt and something sharper—something that didn't sit right in his gut.
Then the taller one lifted his phone again, smirking. "Or hey," he added, voice dripping with mock friendliness, "if you're that interested, you can join in. Make it a three-way. What do you say, little man?"
They burst out laughing again.
The girl froze completely, her body going rigid as the arm around her tightened, dragging her closer, hand slipping down to her waist, gripping like he had every right.
That was it for Sam, and he stepped forward.
"No," he said, voice firm now. "Back off from her. Right now."
The laughter died like a slap, and this time, the girl looked up at him.
Really looked.
Tear-filled blue eyes, wide and searching.
The taller one's expression shifted, irritation creeping in. "Oh yeah?" he said slowly. "And who the hell are you to tell us what to do?"
Sam paused for half a second, then lifted his chin just slightly.
"Me?" he said.
"I'm Sam. I do MMA."
"And you're gonna back off."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then they burst out laughing.
Loud. Open. Like it was the funniest thing they'd heard all night.
Of course.
Sam didn't laugh.
Behind them, the girl didn't either.
He felt her eyes on him—really on him this time. Not just a glance. Not just a reflex.
Looking.
Searching.
There was something there now.
Not much.
But enough.
A flicker.
Hope.
Sam caught it—and that was it. No more hesitation.
He moved.
Fast.
The taller one noticed first, lowering his phone, hand coming up instinctively. "Hey—what the hell do you—"
Sam didn't slow down.
He slapped the hand aside—sharp, precise—more redirect than force. The arm snapped off-line, balance breaking for just a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Sam stepped in and shoved him hard in the chest.
Not wild. Not desperate. Clean.
The guy stumbled back, heel catching awkwardly as he nearly tripped over his own footing, surprise written all over his face.
The shorter one barely had time to react.
"What—?"
Sam was already on him.
His hand shot forward, gripping the front of the guy's jacket, fingers tightening into the fabric as he yanked him sideways with a sudden, controlled pull. The movement broke his stance instantly, dragging him off the girl and out of position before he even understood what was happening.
Sam didn't stop there.
His other hand caught the girl—light, but firm—guiding her away, pulling her clear from between them.
"Come on."
She moved.
No resistance. No hesitation.
Just followed.
He turned with her, placing her behind him in one smooth motion, his body shifting automatically into position, feet adjusting, shoulders squaring.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly.
"…okay," she breathed, close now, her voice unsteady but immediate.
Sam lifted his hands slightly, palms open, relaxed—but ready.
"Alright," he said, tone leveling out, almost casual. "That's enough. No need to make this a whole thing. Just walk away."
They weren't laughing anymore.
Now they just looked pissed.
The taller one stepped forward first, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. "You think you can just walk in here and tell us what to do?"
Sam took a small step back, controlled, keeping distance, keeping the girl shielded behind him.
"Hey," he said, calm, almost conversational. "I'm just saying—this isn't it. Plenty of bars, plenty of options out there. No need for this kind of shit."
He glanced between them, almost shrugging. "You're not exactly ugly guys. You can talk. You'll survive."
"Shut the fuck up."
That came sharp.
Immediate.
And then—
Movement.
The taller guy lunged forward, swinging a heavy right, shoulder turning, arm loading so far back it practically announced itself.
Sam saw it before it even committed.
"…yeah," he muttered under his breath. "No."
He slipped just off the line.
Not much. Just enough.
The punch cut through empty air.
At the same time, Sam stepped in.
Close.
Tight.
His left hand drove straight into the guy's ribs.
Not a swing.
A punch.
Short, compact, and brutal.
Knuckles sank in between bone and muscle—right under the rib line—where the body had no protection.
The impact folded him instantly.
Air exploded out of his lungs in a sharp, broken grunt, his entire frame collapsing inward.
Sam didn't give him time to recover.
Right hand snapped up.
Hook.
Clean.
Fast.
It landed across the jaw with a crack that echoed in the quiet playground, snapping the guy's head sideways.
His body tried to follow.
Didn't get the chance.
Sam's left came again—shorter, tighter, sharper.
A second impact from the opposite side.
The brain didn't catch up.
The body shut down.
His legs gave out beneath him, and he dropped—just folded straight down onto the rubber flooring like someone had cut the strings.
Silence held for half a second.
Sam blinked, breath steady, adrenaline humming low in his veins as he looked down at the first guy sprawled on the rubber flooring, blood already gathering at his lip.
"…oh."
He exhaled through his nose, rolling one shoulder slightly. "Yeah… that landed clean."
A flicker of movement—
"YOU LITTLE FUCK—!"
The second one came in hard.
No pause. No thought. Just rage.
A kick came first—wild, fast, badly placed.
Sam saw it before it fully formed.
His hands snapped out, catching the leg mid-swing—not just stopping it, but owning it. The momentum carried forward anyway, and Sam yanked sharply, dragging the guy off balance. The planted foot slipped, upper body pitching forward, arms already swinging in panic.
Too slow.
Sam released the leg and stepped inside at the same time, closing distance where the other guy had none.
A hand caught his wrist.
Turn.
Rotation snapped through the shoulder like a lever being forced past its limit.
The guy stumbled forward, posture collapsing—
Sam stepped through.
Hip in.
Weight down.
And then—
Lift.
For a split second, the guy's feet left the ground.
Then he hit it.
Hard.
The rubber flooring thudded under the impact, but the force still drove through him, knocking the air straight out of his lungs in a dry, choking sound.
Behind Sam, the girl screamed.
Sharp.
Panicked.
And then—
Footsteps.
Running.
He didn't look.
Didn't register it.
Didn't have time.
The guy tried to move beneath him, body twisting, arms scrambling for anything—
Sam dropped with him, one knee planting into his side, pinning him in place.
The other hand came up.
No hesitation now.
"…yeah," Sam muttered under his breath. "Stay down."
The punch came straight down.
Short.
Compact.
All weight behind it.
Knuckles met bone with a dull, heavy crack.
The head snapped sideways.
The body went limp.
Just like that.
Still.
Sam held there for a second, breathing controlled, eyes locked on him to make sure—really make sure—there was no second wind coming.
There wasn't.
Silence settled over the playground again, broken only by his breathing and the faint echo of something distant—footsteps, maybe.
"…right."
He took a step back, scanning the two guys more carefully now.
There was blood. Not a lot—but enough to make him worry that if this went to court he just might get into trouble. After all, a trained MMA guy fighting two scrawny young dudes in a playground at night probably wouldn't look too good.
Then to Sam's relief, the first one groaned faintly, shifting just a little, trying to come back to himself.
Sam crouched slightly, studying them.
"You guys breathing, yeah? All good?"
A pause.
"…look, let's just call it here, alright?" he added, tone easing, almost reasonable now. "Nothing really happened. No one's dead. No police, no reports—everyone just goes home. Sounds good, yeah?"
The taller one groaned again, pushing himself up onto an elbow, and then his hand slipped into his pocket.
Sam's eyes tracked it immediately.
Metal flashed.
Knife.
"…ah," Sam exhaled quietly. "Yeah. Of course."
The other one stirred too, slower, but just as angry, dragging himself up enough to sit, breathing rough.
"Fuck you…" the taller one rasped, blade coming up, hand shaking slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline. "I'll fucking cut you for that."
Sam took a step back.
Then another.
Hands came up—not to fight, but open, palms out.
"Alright, alright—let's not do that," he said quickly, tone shifting. "No need to escalate. We were doing great. Real nice resolution moment."
They didn't respond, their eyes just held that pure unshakable rage within them.
Sam glanced past them instinctively—
And that's when he noticed.
She was gone.
Already halfway across the street, a blur in the distance, running toward the lights of the city's without looking back.
For a split second, something pulled at him.
…didn't even catch her name.
No "thanks."
No nothing.
Just gone.
He let out a quiet breath.
"…yeah," he muttered. "That's real life, huh."
A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe. Or just disappointment.
Then it snapped off.
Because now It was just him, and them.
There was no reason to stay.
"…yeah," he said softly. "I think we're done here."
The decision came instantly.
He turned.
And ran.
Branches snapped under his feet as he cut through the bushes, not even thinking anymore, just moving, straight line, fastest way out. He cleared the ditch in one step, landed hard, kept going, the bike right where he'd left it.
"Still here," he breathed, grabbing it.
One smooth motion—up, push, pedal.
Go.
Behind him, shouting exploded, loud, furious, not even words anymore, just noise tearing through the quiet.
Didn't matter.
Distance did.
He hit the gravel path, then the sidewalk, tires gripping better now as he pushed harder, legs already burning, lungs dragging in cold air that felt like glass.
"…alright."
He kept pedaling, but the urgency eased just a little.
"That's it. Done. Over," he said under his breath. "Great. Fantastic. Hero moment complete."
A short breath, almost a laugh.
"Now just get home. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Work tomorrow. Easy."
He didn't stop, but he eased slightly, glancing ahead as the neighborhood opened up—small houses, dark windows, quiet streets, everything normal again like nothing had happened.
Almost home.
His shoulders dropped just a little.
"Yeah… that's more like it."
Then he heard it. Something cut through the quiet, like a really loud engine.
Sam frowned slightly, instinct kicking in before thought.
"…what the—"
He glanced back.
Headlights.
Too bright.
Too fast.
Bearing down on him.
And inside—
Shapes.
Two of them.
One tall.
One shorter.
Recognition hit instantly.
"What—no way—" Sam's breath hitched. "You've gotta be kidding me—"
The engine roared.
Tires screamed.
The car surged forward like it had decided.
"Oh, come on!" Sam snapped, pushing down hard on the pedals, legs burning as he tried to accelerate. "I didn't even hit you that hard—!"
The car jumped the curb.
Straight onto the sidewalk.
No hesitation.
No slowing.
Just—
Impact.
The world snapped.
The bike vanished beneath him, crushed sideways in an instant as metal screamed and folded. The force ripped him off it like he weighed nothing, his body thrown forward—
Into the windshield.
A violent, bone-jarring collision.
Glass cracked outward in a spiderweb around him as his back slammed against it, the breath driven completely out of his lungs—
—and then he was airborne.
Spinning.
Weightless.
Street.
Sky.
Light.
Everything twisting together.
Pain came late.
Then all at once.
And there—
Beside him—
His phone.
Spinning.
Falling.
"No—!"
His hand twitched toward it, fingers reaching, grasping at empty air.
My portfolio—my money—my entire future—
Gravity came back.
Hard.
The ground hit him like a wall.
His body slammed into the asphalt, something in him cracking—sharp, deep—white light exploding through his vision as the world collapsed inward.
Sound dulled.
Faded.
His limbs didn't answer anymore.
He lay there, staring, breath shallow, something warm spreading beneath him, seeping into the cold pavement.
The car reversed.
Engine growling.
He saw it through blurred vision.
Saw it turn.
Drive.
Leave.
And his phone—
Lying there.
Alone.
A tire rolled over it.
Crack.
"…ah…"
A weak sound escaped him.
Of course.
Of course that's how it ends.
His thoughts drifted, slipping, unraveling.
If I'd been born a girl…
A faint, broken smile tugged at his lips.
Maybe I'd be the one getting saved.
Would've been easier.
No fighting. No bullshit.
Could've skipped the whole "get a girlfriend" problem too…
Hell…
Could've just been my own girlfriend.
Save time.
Save money.
A soft, almost delirious huff of laughter escaped him.
…yeah.
That'd actually be pretty efficient.
Eric would hate that.
"Yeah… fuck you, Eric…"
His vision dimmed further, edges collapsing into black.
"Wait, what am I even thinking…"
A deep, heavy cold crept in.
"…I'm such an idiot…"
The world began to fade, and then, nothing.