Rain fell like shards of glass—each drop a cold needle against Smithen's face, slicing through the darkness in silver streaks. The bridge lights above flickered sickly yellow, catching the downpour in mid-air, turning the whole world into a shattered chandelier.
Smithen's legs pistoned against the pedals, his breath ragged, his heart a war drum in his chest. The bicycle swayed beneath him—too fast, too reckless—but he didn't slow down. The tires hissed on wet asphalt, water feathering up from the back wheel in a ghostly spray. His knuckles were bone-white on the handlebars.
Somehow, he could sense it was his. The luxurious cars that just crossed him.
They're turning back.
He hadn't looked. Didn't need to. The roar of seven luxury engines reversing on a wet bridge was unmistakable. A low, synchronized growl—German engineering chewing up the rain-slicked road in reverse. Tires gripping, then slipping, then gripping again. Seven sets of headlights swung around like searching eyes, painting the bridge in long, watery beams.
A hunting pack circling its prey.
How did he see me?
The question clawed at his throat. He hadn't slowed. Hadn't turned his head. His hood was up, collar popped, face half-hidden in shadow. The rain should have been his veil, not his enemy.
But we are practically strangers now.
His mind raced faster than the bike. Six months. A new beard. Different clothes. He'd lost twelve pounds, changed the way he walked, even the way he breathed in public.
I guess no issues even if we see each other. Or even talk, in a bad case.
He almost believed it.
Then the first engine screamed—closer now. Not reversing anymore. Pulling a hard U-turn on a bridge meant for two lanes, tires shrieking against the curb. Metal groaned. Glass from a broken side mirror skittered across the asphalt like ice cubes.
Tinted windows. Darkness. Rain.
How—
CRACK.
The front wheel found a fissure—a hairline fracture the storm had turned into a trap. Water had softened the edge, pried it open like a wound. The tire dropped in, caught, and the handlebars wrenched sideways with a violent crack of spokes.
Time became syrup.
Smithen flew.
His hip hit asphalt first—a white-hot flare of pain that traveled up his ribs like lightning. Then his elbow. Then the flat of his palm. He slid—one metre, two—the rough road shredding his shirt sleeve, peeling back fabric and skin together in a wet rasp. Grit embedded itself in his forearm. Rain washed over the raw meat of his flesh, and he felt each grain of sand like a tiny ember.
No blood.
The thought surfaced through the shock, bizarre and clinical. The wound stung—God, it stung—a long graze from elbow to wrist, pink and weeping and studded with black road debris. But no red. No trickle. No slick warmth running down into his palm.
Strange, he thought, pushing himself up on trembling arms. By the force of accident it must have bled. He looked down at his torn sleeve. The fabric had held—not torn through, just abraded thin, a costly weave of something high-thread-count and foreign. It had burned against his skin, melted almost, sealed the capillaries as it shredded.
Thanks to these branded shirts.
He almost laughed. Three hundred dollars of Italian cotton, and it had just acted as a second epidermis. The one time overpriced fashion saved a man from leaving a blood trail for a pack of wolves.
The bicycle lay twisted three yards back—front wheel bent into a shallow 'S', spokes gleaming like broken ribs. The chain had slipped off, dangling limp, but the back wheel still spun freely. Still rollable.
He grabbed the handlebars, cold metal slick with rain. Hauled the bicycle upright, the frame shuddering in his grip.
Headlights cut through the downpour, and someone stopped the car. Not from ahead—not from those seven gleaming luxury engines purring past. But from behind.
A taxi. Yellow paint chipped and faded, engine rattling like loose change. A middle-aged driver with a thick, rain-beaded mustache leaned out the window. "Hey! You okay? I saw you fall!"
Smithen's voice came out strangled, barely a whisper over the drumming rain. "Please—help me—"
The driver didn't hesitate. He threw his door open, jogged around, and heaved the bicycle onto the roof rack. Bungee cords snapped tight around the frame. "Get in. Quick. You're soaked. It is already raining heavily."
Smithen threw himself into the backseat. The door slammed with a hollow thud. The taxi pulled away, tires hissing on the wet asphalt, wipers sweeping back and forth like a frantic metronome.
Through the rain-streaked rear window, Smithen watched the convoy stop. The man in the middle car—the one with red eyes, sharp and unyielding—opened the door.
There was something in his gaze—something that could pull him under, unravel him, and crush his senses in an instant.
His figure stepped out.
Tall. Imposing. Left arm in a cast. Black suit untouched by rain.
Viran.
Smithen's heart stopped.
His eyes could have met mine.
If the taxi had been one second slower.
If the driver hadn't seen me fall.
If—
"Where to, young man?" the driver asked.
Smithen gave his address. His voice was steady. His hands, pressed flat against his wet thighs, were not.
Behind them, the convoy moved again—not toward the taxi, but toward the bridge's edge. Toward the place where Smithen had fallen.
What is he looking for? But before he could see, the taxi rounded a corner, and the bridge vanished from the rear window.
Viran's Italian leather shoes touched wet asphalt. Rain hammered his shoulders, the hard cast on his arm, his face. He didn't flinch.
Behind him, Luxan held an umbrella—canvas snapping in the wind, rain spraying sideways, useless. "Sir, the rain is getting heavier—"
"Quiet."
Viran's red eyes scanned the bridge.
He was here.
The scent was unmistakable. Jasmine. Skin. Warmth. Fresh.
He walked forward slowly. Stepped over a skid mark. Over a torn piece of white fabric—a shirt sleeve, ripped open by asphalt, threads frayed like nerve endings.
He bent down.
Not for the fabric.
For the cap.
A simple white cap. Drenched. Muddy. Rainwater seeping from it in dirty rivulets, pooling against his fingers. It lay at the bridge's edge, half-hidden against the railing, trembling in the wind like something alive.
Viran picked it up.
Luxan rushed forward. "Sir, let me—"
Viran didn't answer.
He held the cap to his face.
Jasmine. Sweat. Rain. Him.
"It's his," Viran murmured.
And then—
Flash of sudden images before his eyes. A flash of memory?
A hospital room. White lights. A heart monitor flatlining.
"Please don't leave me now."
His own voice. Desperate. Broken.
"I didn't know about the picture. I swear to God."
A woman's slap. Sharp. Wet with tears. Rage. Grief.
"My son is dying because of YOU."
Viran staggered.
Luxan caught his elbow. "Sir? Sir, are you alright?"
The images vanished. Rain. Bridge. Night.
Viran's chest heaved. Rain ran down his face like the streaks of a mask melting.
Whose hand was I holding?
Who was dying?
Why did I feel like my world was ending?
He looked at the cap.
"Luxan. Find out who owns this cap. Every detail. Name. Address. Daily routine. Family. Everything. Tonight."
Luxan nodded.
"Within two hours—"
"Tonight."
On the other side, Smithen's heart pounded—thump, thump, thump against his ribs. Fearing his brother would see him, he slowly slipped through the back door like a ghost.
The house was quiet. Arin's light was off. His mother's study dark—it seemed she didn't have any session today.
Good.
He crept upstairs, avoiding the third step that always creaked. His wet shoes squelched on the wood. His torn shirt dripped rainwater in a thin, steady trail behind him.
He reached his room. Closed the door. Leaned against it.
Safe.
He didn't see me.
But his mind replayed the image: Viran stepping out of the car. Tall. Commanding. Hunting.
He was looking for me.
Why?
Is he also reborn? If so, he must have met me by now.
Did he recognize something, but there is a nill chance to that, I am practically a stranger.
Smithen pressed his palms against his eyes.
Stop. Stop thinking about him. You're done.
But another part of him—the part that remembered the blood moon, when Viran had lost his indifference lingering—ached with traitorous longing.
That night.
The memory crashed over him like a wave he couldn't breathe through.
Viran's hands—impatient, almost cruel—tearing at his clothes. Not asking. Just taking. Smithen's back hitting the cold wash basin, then the soft fur of the bed. Their mouths crashed together in sloppy, biting kisses, teeth clacking, tongues thrusting deep. Viran tasted like copper and something dark. Smithen gasped into his throat.
Viran pounded relentlessly, no rhythm, just them binding intimately. Bodies slapping against sweat-slick skin, the wet sound filling the dark chamber. Smithen's nails raked down Viran's back. Viran groaned—low, guttural—and grabbed his hips hard enough to bruise.
Then Viran's hot breath ghosted over his ear mid-thrust, voice shredded and low:
"I couldn't stay away."
Smithen had come undone right there, crying out into the hollow of Viran's neck.
He already had Akanya. He chose her. He married me just for a curse.
Smithen's bandaged hand trembled against the doorframe.
The rain kept falling outside. The house stayed silent.
And the ache in his chest just grew.
He walked to the bathroom. Filled the tub with warm water. Added jasmine salts. Undressed slowly.
In the mirror: scraped elbow, bruised hip, a long red graze along his ribs.
No blood.
Still strange. But he was too tired to question.
He stepped into the tub. Lowered himself into the warmth. Kept his scraped hand dry on the edge which is already wrapped by a bandage.
His eyes closed.
And his mind wandered again to the same single night, that they were real, not a mere legal title owner being his husband in name.
How Viran's muscled body pinned him down into the mattress, his body grinding hard against Smithen's thigh. Viran's hot lips dragged along his throat, sucking wet bruises into the skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his sweat.
Viran's voice rasped out, broken and feral: "Smithen… Smithen… I can't fucking hold back… need to fuck you raw…and I can't seem to stay away from you, not tonight"
The ghost of sharp teeth sinking into his collarbone, biting down just enough to draw a thin trickle of blood, the sting blooming into raw pleasure. Smithen's own moans echoed in his mind—slutty, broken cries as his body throbbed and wept onto his stomach, his body clenching desperately around nothing, aching.
A fierce heat exploded low in Smithen's gut, his balls tightening with savage need. Not from the steaming shower water cascading over him. From the ravenous hunger clawing inside, demanding.
His thighs squeezed together, trapping his pulsing erection. His breaths turned ragged, hips twitching involuntarily, chasing friction that wasn't there.
No. Stop. His mind snarled through the haze.
He betrayed you.But his body didn't care. His body remembered the weight of Viran's hands, the press of Viran's hips, the way Viran had trembled when he came undone.
Smithen's fingers gripped the edge of the tub. He lay still. The water grew cold.
"Smithen!"
Arin's voice from the hallway. "You in there?"
Smithen's eyes snapped open. The heat vanished. Replaced by cold water and colder guilt. A guilt of not being to hold himself back.
"Yeah—just taking a bath."
"The interview?"
Smithen stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist, opened the door.
Arin stood there in his night robe, holding tea. His eyes swept over Smithen—the scraped elbow, the bruised hip, the bandaged hand.
"What happened?"
"Fell cycling. Rain. Slippery road."
Arin's eyes narrowed. "The bicycle looks like it crashed into a truck."
"I lost balance. It's fine."
A pause. Then Arin shrugged. "So… the interview?"
Smithen's smile became real. "Cleared it. Me and Kiren both. They said if we do well, VIP section."
Arin's eyebrow lifted. "VIP section? At a three-star hotel?"
"They're trying to upgrade."
"Ah." Arin sipped his tea. "Congratulations. Just… be careful."
"I'm always careful."
Arin snorted. "You fell off a bicycle in the rain."
Smithen sighed. "Goodnight, Arin."
"Goodnight, little brother."
Arin walked away.
Smithen slowly closed the door.
His eyes drifted to his desk.
The toy sat there.
He stared at it for a long moment. Then turned off the light.
Viran's study room – 12:30 AM
Viran stood at the floor-to-ceiling window.
The city sprawled beneath him—millions of lights, millions of heartbeats. He could hear none of them. But he could feel one.
Somewhere out there. The stranger. The jasmine. The man who haunted his dreams.
The cap sat on his desk, still damp, still smelling of rain and him.
Viran touched his own wrist. Fingers wrapping around bone.
Why does my hand remember holding someone else's? Why do I feel like I've begged for someone to stay? Why do I feel like I failed?
He looked at his reflection. Red eyes. Sharp jaw. Immaculate suit.
Monster. Curse. Hunger.
He touched his lips.
Did I kiss him? In the dream? In another life?
He turned to his desk. Picked up the cap.
"Luxan."
The PA appeared. "Sir."
"Anything?"
Luxan hesitated. "The cap is common. Mass-produced. No identifier. But the torn fabric—the shirt sleeve—is Italian cotton. Limited edition. Only three stores in the city carry it."
Viran's red eyes glowed. "Find out who bought it. When. How."
"Already working on it, sir."
Luxan didn't leave.
"Something else?"
"Sir… the dreams. The stranger. Is it possible you've met him before? And forgotten?"
Viran's gaze sharpened. "Why would you say that?"
"Because the way you looked at that cap, sir. It wasn't curiosity. It was… recognition."
Who are you? Why do I feel like I've already lost you? Why do I feel like I'm running out of time?