The growl of motorcycle engines shattered the calm morning air like a blade slicing through silence. Zane Holloway tightened his grip on the handlebars of his Ducati Panigale V4, feeling the machine's power thrumming beneath him. This—right here—was where he felt most alive. The world around him faded into a blur, his focus zeroing in on one thing: the race.
The stakes? Twenty miles of treacherous road, winding down the mountains, spilling into the busy streets below Redwood University. But for Zane, it wasn't about the ten thousand dollars Logan Cruz had wagered. The money meant nothing. It never had. This was about pride, about proving something—to himself more than anyone else.
Logan Cruz, his so-called rival, stood nearby, grinning like he'd already won. Zane's eyes flicked over to him, taking in the smug look on his face as he leaned against his Yamaha YZF-R1, flipping a coin like he didn't have a care in the world. Logan was Redwood's untouchable bad boy, the self-crowned king of the underground scene, with a gang of lowlifes who worshipped him.
"You sure you want to do this, Holloway?" Logan's voice was casual, his tone mocking. He spoke like he already knew the outcome, like Zane wasn't even worth the effort. Behind him, his crew snickered, already convinced of their win.
Zane didn't reply, keeping his expression blank behind his helmet. He wasn't here to exchange words, especially not with someone like Logan. This wasn't about ego, though he had plenty of that. It was about the rush—the split-second decisions, the danger that came with pushing the limits.
He felt the hum of the engine beneath him, the deep rumble vibrating through his body. The Ducati was more than just a bike—it was an extension of himself. It responded to his touch, to the slightest shift in weight. This was where he was in control, where everything else in his life faded into the background.
"All right, boys," Logan snapped his fingers with that trademark smirk. "Let's do this. Don't cry when I smoke you, Holloway."
The engines roared to life, filling the air with the heavy scent of gasoline and burning rubber. Zane's muscles tensed, his grip tightening on the handlebars. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the engine, fast but steady. The fire in his chest burned, not from fear but from the need to win, to silence Logan's smug face for good.
The signal came, and they launched forward.
---
The mountain road twisted and turned like a living beast, each sharp curve daring them to lose control. Zane leaned into every turn, his body moving as one with the bike. The wind whipped against his face, and the Ducati roared beneath him, devouring the road like it was built for this very moment.
Every second was a test—of skill, of nerve, of instinct. One wrong move, and the consequences would be brutal. But Zane wasn't thinking about crashing. He wasn't thinking about anything except the road ahead and the sound of Logan's Yamaha right behind him. Logan was fast, dangerously fast, but Zane had the edge—he was more precise, more focused.
The city streets loomed ahead, and with them, the chaos that always came with downtown traffic. This was where things would get messy. Zane's pulse quickened, his grip tightening. He loved this part—the unpredictability, the narrow escapes. It was all adrenaline now.
As they hit the city, cars swerved out of their way, horns blaring, pedestrians jumping back onto the sidewalk as the two racers tore through the streets without hesitation. Zane weaved through the traffic like a predator, his eyes darting between gaps, calculating every move.
But Logan was relentless. A shadow in his rearview mirror, always just a breath away. Zane felt the pressure mounting, and for a moment, doubt flickered in his mind. Was Logan really going to win this?
Then it happened.
A taxi lurched forward into the intersection, and Zane had no choice but to brake hard, the tires screeching as they barely avoided collision. In that split second, Logan shot past him, laughing as he took the lead.
Zane cursed under his breath, his frustration boiling over. He hit the throttle, pushing the Ducati as hard as it would go, weaving through the remaining cars, but Logan had already gained too much ground. The finish line—marked by the towering gates of Redwood University—was just ahead.
Zane crossed the line seconds after Logan, his heart still pounding, his body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. He yanked off his helmet, letting the cool air hit his face, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Losing wasn't part of the plan, but right now, all he could feel was the anger burning in his gut.
Logan, on the other hand, was all smiles as he strutted over, his crew trailing behind him like loyal dogs. "You were saying?" Logan's tone was full of triumph, his eyes glinting with smug satisfaction.
Zane stared at him, his jaw clenched, trying to rein in the storm that was brewing inside him. Logan wasn't going to get a rise out of him. He wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
But then Logan's grin widened, his voice dropping lower, more personal. "What's wrong, Holloway? You quiet now? Or maybe you're just embarrassed that you lost in front of everyone. Maybe you should've brought your mommy to cheer you on. Oh wait—she's probably too busy getting passed around like—"
The snap was instant. Before Logan could finish his sentence, Zane's fist flew, connecting with his jaw with a sickening crack. The force sent Logan stumbling backward, his hand immediately going to his face, shock and pain flashing across his features. For a second, there was silence—no more laughter, no more taunts. Just the sound of heavy breathing and the thudding of Zane's heart in his ears.
Logan's eyes darkened, the shock replaced with pure rage. He wiped the blood from his mouth, his voice a low growl. "You're dead, Holloway."
And then it was chaos.
Logan lunged at Zane, and in an instant, they were on the ground, fists flying, bodies colliding with bone-crunching force. Zane didn't care about the consequences. His vision narrowed to nothing but Logan's sneering face, and all he wanted was to beat that grin off him. Every punch landed with a satisfying thud, his knuckles throbbing from the impact, but the pain didn't matter. Nothing mattered except making Logan feel every ounce of the rage burning inside him.
Blood spattered across the pavement, mingling with the dirt as Logan's gang tried to pull them apart. Shouts rang out, but Zane barely heard them. He was lost in the fight, consumed by the need to hurt, to shut Logan up for good.
---
"ENOUGH!"
The voice boomed through the crowd, cutting through the noise like a whip. The principal, red-faced and livid, stormed forward, grabbing Zane by the collar and yanking him off Logan. His voice was harsh, the anger barely contained. "Both of you, to my office. NOW."
Zane didn't resist. His chest heaved, his hands bloody, his shirt sticking to his skin with sweat and blood—most of it Logan's. But the adrenaline was still surging through him, his body trembling with the remnants of the fight. He glanced at Logan, who was still on the ground, clutching his jaw, glaring up at Zane with pure hatred.
Thirty days. That was the sentence. Both Zane and Logan were suspended for 30 days. But as Zane walked away from the office, his head still buzzing from the fight, he felt no satisfaction. He hadn't won the race, and now, he had a month to think about how things had spiraled out of control.
---
He stormed down the path outside the office, lost in his own thoughts, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. His mind raced, replaying the fight over and over, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. His knuckles throbbed, and the taste of failure hung heavy in his throat.
That's when it happened.
He crashed into someone.
"Hey! Watch it!" A sharp voice cut through his haze, irritated and full of attitude.
Zane barely glanced down. A girl stood in front of him, hands raised in surprise, her dark hair falling around her shoulders like a curtain. Her eyes flashed with a mix of shock and irritation, lips slightly parted as if she were about to say something more.
But Zane didn't care. He was still lost in the haze of anger, frustration from the race, and the fight that had just ripped through him like a storm. His voice came out low, rough. "You should walk properly," he muttered, pushing past her without a second glance, his mind already elsewhere.
The girl, Riya Kapoor, watched him go, her brows knitting together in a confused frown. Who the hell was that? She shook her head, brushing herself off as if the encounter had left a physical mark. "First day at Redwood," she mumbled under her breath, "and I'm already running into assholes."
Her eyes trailed after Zane, watching as his tall, muscular figure disappeared down the path, blood still staining his shirt, his hands flexing at his sides like he was barely containing himself. There was something raw and dangerous about him—something that screamed trouble.
Her first impression of Redwood University? Chaos.
---
Zane didn't stop walking. His steps were quick, almost aggressive, as he stormed away from the confrontation. His mind was still spinning—Logan's sneering face, the punch, the blood, the suspension. He could still feel the heat in his knuckles, the throb of adrenaline fading but not disappearing entirely.
He needed to get away from the noise. From the stares. From the pressure of it all. His mind kept going back to the race—the moment he lost. That damn taxi, that split second of hesitation that had cost him everything. He wasn't used to losing. Not in races, not in fights, not in life.
The taste of failure was bitter, and it clung to him, refusing to let go.
A sudden vibration in his pocket broke through his thoughts. Zane pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen.
Mom.
He swiped the call open, bringing the phone to his ear, his voice heavy. "Yeah?"
His mother's voice, Alisa Holloway, came through the line, soft but with an edge of worry. "Zane, where are you? You haven't been answering my texts."
Zane sighed, his frustration barely contained. "I was busy."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, the kind that only mothers can pull off, where silence says more than words ever could. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with concern.
Zane's jaw tightened. He hated that question. Hated the way it made him feel like something was wrong, like he wasn't in control. "I'm fine, Mom. I'll be home soon."
Alisa's sigh echoed through the phone. She didn't push further, but Zane could hear the unspoken questions, the worry that seemed to constantly hover over her. Ever since… well, ever since the family had started to fray at the edges, she had been like this. Always worried. Always trying to hold it all together.
"Just… come home soon, okay?" Alisa said softly, and before Zane could respond, the call ended.
Zane lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen for a moment. He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it all settling back on his shoulders. His father wasn't around much anymore—always off dealing with business, leaving his mother to deal with the cracks forming at home. And now… well, now Zane was suspended for thirty days, which meant even more time to think.
Exactly what he didn't want.
---
Riya Kapoor was still standing where Zane had brushed past her, shaking off the encounter like it had stuck to her skin. She glanced down at her watch, realizing how late she was for her next class. With a quick breath, she adjusted her bag and hurried in the opposite direction, trying to put the strange interaction behind her.
But Zane's face stuck with her. That raw anger, the blood on his shirt, the way he had barely looked at her, like she was an obstacle instead of a person. She didn't know who he was—didn't care, really—but something about him felt… unsettling. Like he carried chaos with him, and anyone who got too close would get caught in it.
As she walked, her phone buzzed in her pocket. Riya fished it out, seeing a message from Soumya.
Soumya: Hey, are you free later? Let's check out that art exhibition downtown. Heard it's amazing.
Riya's lips curled into a small smile. Art exhibitions were her escape—her way of finding peace in a world that often felt too loud, too chaotic. It was something she had always loved, even back in India, where she'd spent hours wandering through galleries, getting lost in the brushstrokes and stories behind the paintings.
She typed back a quick response.
Riya: Definitely. I could use the distraction.
Slipping her phone back into her bag, Riya made her way to class, her mind still buzzing from the run-in with Zane.
—
Zane walked toward the parking lot, his mind still buzzing with anger and frustration. His bike was parked in its usual spot, the Ducati Panigale V4 gleaming under the afternoon sun, looking as pristine as ever. But even that couldn't calm the storm inside him.
As he swung a leg over the seat and revved the engine, he couldn't help but feel that this was just the beginning of something bigger. The fight with Logan, the tension at home, the constant pressure to stay in control—it was all building up, simmering beneath the surface.
As he roared down the street, his thoughts were scattered, his emotions tangled in a mess of rage and uncertainty. The road stretched out before him, the city blurring into a background of noise and chaos, but none of it mattered.
He just needed to feel the speed. To feel in control again.