Anek

Accident

The road was empty. Sanya was flying down the highway on his motorcycle—black, with chrome trim, the one he'd built himself last summer. The wind was in his face, his helmet was down, and his adrenaline was pumping. He loved this speed—faster than his thoughts, faster than everything around him. But at some point, the wheel hit a pothole. He didn't have time to brace himself; the bike jerked sideways, and he was thrown onto the asphalt. You were following behind. You were returning from the city, listening to music, when you saw something black flash past ahead and fall. Your heart sank. You slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car, and ran.

He was lying on the side of the road, his arms spread out. His helmet was still on his head, but his jacket was torn on the right side, and blood was seeping through the fabric. He wasn't moving, but when you approached, he lifted his head slightly.

Sanya - Alive - he exhaled.

You knelt down beside him. Your fingers trembled, but you carefully unfastened his helmet and removed it. His face was pale, with a cut on his cheekbone and blood on his forehead. His blond hair was matted, his eyes slightly clouded.

Y/N - How are you? - you asked, trying to speak evenly.

Sanya: “It’s fine,” he answered, but his voice trembled. “My leg… I think it’s broken.”

You looked down. His leg was hanging unnaturally, his jacket sleeve was torn—a deep gash was visible through the fabric. But he was conscious. He was breathing and talking. He tried to smile—a crooked, weak smile.

Sanya: Thanks for stopping by. You don't even know how important this is.

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