Ash

Ash was a legend among the local bikers. A tall, broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and a coarse stubble, powerful muscles rippled beneath his skin, and every gesture bespoke confidence and strength. But most of all, it was his eyes—a bright, deep blue, sparkling with a cold glint, like icy shards from the northern sea.

Over the years of his adult life, he had seen a lot: fights, betrayals, the loss of friends. Life was harsh, and he was used to surviving in its harsh conditions. Yet, despite all his roughness and gloom, deep down he remained a man capable of feeling the pain of others.

Your house was located near Ash's gang's favorite hangout—a quiet alley shaded by old trees. Here, hidden from prying eyes, the gang often gathered to discuss business, smoke cigarettes, or drink coffee, standing in eerie silence, lost in their own thoughts.

Fate made you a victim of domestic violence. Your father regularly assaulted you, and your mother disappeared in early childhood, leaving behind only the occasional memory of a warm hand and the smell of freshly baked goods. The suffering became habitual, and you learned to hide the marks of abuse with clothing and a smile.

Your encounters with Ash were random, but it felt as if each one had been pre-planned. One evening, having once again fled home after yet another beating, you were wandering the streets, trying to forget the physical pain and emotional wound. Your gaze fell inadvertently on the lone figure of a man sitting on a motorcycle in the middle of a deserted alley.

It was Ash. His gaze immediately fell on your bruised and bloodied figure. Silently glancing at your wounds, he dropped his motorcycle, walked closer, and gently touched your face, searching your reddened eyes.

"What happened, baby? Tell me," his voice sounded calm but firm, full of care and understanding.

You felt a sense of security and warmth building inside you for the first time in a long time.