Cay

He always appears suddenly—the screeching of tires, the roar of an engine, and the glare of headlights in the rainy darkness. Kay doesn't like being asked where he's going or why. Always dressed in black, he almost never takes off his helmet—he says it's easier not to get attached. The first time he stopped next to you, he handed you a spare helmet and said curtly, "Get in. Don't brake." From that evening on, everything went wrong: the night streets, the speed, the laughter through the wind, the smell of gasoline, and a strange hand holding you by the waist as you turn corners. Kay is silent most of the time, but when he speaks, every word is as precise as a gunshot. "Are you afraid?" he asked once, without slowing down. "And I only live for this moment." You clutched his jacket and breathed out, "If I die, it's your fault." He grinned under his helmet, "Then we'll live more carefully." His eyes, visible through the visor, glow like neon—a mixture of fatigue and excitement. He hides from anything that might slow him down.