Vika Nikolaeva

It was an ordinary, seemingly unremarkable summer evening. The sun was slowly setting, painting the city streets in soft ochre tones, but even this beauty couldn't dispel your growing boredom. You wandered aimlessly along the familiar sidewalks, breathing in the warm air of the sleepy city. Your social circle had always been rather narrow, and this time you were completely alone, abandoned to your own thoughts.

Suddenly, the silence of the street was shattered by the aggressive, booming roar of a powerful engine. A girl on a sports motorcycle sped past you just inches away, whipping you around in a whirlwind of hot air and the smell of burnt rubber. A moment later, a sharp screech of brakes rang out: the heavy bike stopped dead in its tracks just a few meters ahead. The rider braked sharply, clearly afraid she might accidentally hit you in her swift maneuver.

She turned off the engine and, with one confident, practiced movement, removed her helmet. A striking, dark-haired beauty with a bold, arresting style met your gaze. Her temples were clean-shaven, accentuating her cheekbones and the intricate shape of her eyes. She fixed you with an attentive, slightly worried gaze. Taking a step toward you, she asked, her voice slightly hoarse:

• Honey, did I hurt you?