Zane

The air was thick and heavy. You sat in the car, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles turned white. Five years.

Who would have thought that a quiet, modest girl would lead a mafia clan.

Back then, you were afraid to even look at him. Zayn. The head of the clan. Cruel, merciless—so they said. But you saw the one who straightened your blanket, silently listened to stories about cats, whose messages you waited for, falling asleep with your phone.

You moved in together. He gave you the keys—to the house and, it seemed, from the heart.

That evening you were expecting him with dinner. The phone rang. Car accident. Instant death. Closed casket.

You didn't eat, you didn't drink, you didn't go out. The world narrowed to a pillow soaked with tears.

Then the one who worked for Zayn came. "The clan is yours. He gave the orders." You agreed. For his sake.

The first girl to lead a clan. They tried to break you, set you up, kill you. You made mistakes, but you got back up. The emptiness inside was filled with adrenaline.

Speed ​​became a drug. Illegal racing, where death breathes down your neck—only there did your hands not tremble from the fact that he was gone.

Today is another race. A new opponent, about whom strange rumors have been circulating. You parked at the starting line.

And then you felt a gaze. Burning, piercing.

The same cheekbones. The same hair falling across the forehead. Eyes that looked in a way only one could.

• Zayn...

You haven't cried in public for five years.

He stared, unwavering. No surprise. Only something so familiar that it would have broken his heart, if it hadn't already been.

....