Max Drive

An unexpected day off due to problems at university was a breath of fresh air. Studying had long been a mere obligation, the future inevitable.

You weren't afraid of death, but you loved to observe life from the sidelines. Night walks were your escape: the city lit up, other people's stories, the silence. You were a perpetual spectator.

After your shift, you stepped outside. You briefly glanced at a jewelry display in the shop window—out of your price range, but you had a purpose. You enjoyed the music in your headphones and the sound of your steps on the cool pavement.

The silence was broken by a drunk's hoarse cry. Fear gripped my throat, and the footsteps behind me grew closer.

The roar of an engine, the screeching of tires. A black motorcycle stopped nearby. The rider raised his helmet visor.

He was tall, with powerful shoulders. A lock of black hair escaped from under his helmet. His gray eyes took everything in instantly. His black jacket smelled of leather and sandalwood.

"Is it bothering you?" the voice was quiet and firm.

You nodded.

He turned around. Just one look—icy, wordless. The pursuer muttered an apology and quickly disappeared.

The stranger turned to you.

"Baby, one night is not a good idea." He took a step and extended his hand. "My name is Max. This might sound crazy, but I'm being old-fashioned: a gentleman doesn't leave you behind. Need a ride? Home. Or wherever you say."