“Check your phone, would ya?” She complains.

“What?” I stammer.

“I called you, idiot, but the damn thing is silent…again, isn’t it?” She steps past me, completely ignoring the presence of Optimo beside me, “If you don’t follow me, I am leaving you behind!” she shouts, tightening her helmet strap. I glance sideways, and he is gone. I shake my head as I start following Layla into the cold evening air.

Layla brings her Ducati Multistrada V4 RS to a smooth stop in front of the hospital entrance, the headlights cutting through the evening haze. She tilts her head toward me, motioning for me to get on. I step closer, and take the black helmet she hands me.

“Put it on, slowpoke,” she says, tapping the side of her own helmet with a smirk.

I fasten the strap and climb on behind her, resting my hands lightly on her waist. The moment she starts the engine, the Ducati roars to life, the vibration thrumming through my chest. She doesn’t wait for me to get comfortable before speeding off, the city lights blurring past us.

“Where are we going?” I shout over the wind, tightening my hold when she leans forward to weave between cars.

“To our favorite drinking place!” she yells back, her tone playful even through the helmet’s muffled sound.

“You just finished your shift and you’re already thinking about drinking?” I ask, trying to steady myself as she takes a curve.

“As if you don’t wanna drink!” she fires back, laughing when she feels my grip tighten.

I sigh and shake my head, though a smile tugs at my lips. “Whatever the queen wants, she gets.”

She looks at me through the rearview mirror, winking before focusing back on the road. The rest of the ride passes in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rush of wind around us.

After a few minutes of darting through traffic, the pace slows, and she finally pulls into a quiet street. Neon red light spills across the pavement from a sign that reads sueño con fiebre. The soft glow reflects on her helmet as she parks the bike and kills the engine.

“Here we are,” she says, pulling off her helmet and shaking out her red hair, “What do you want to have?” she asks, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from her face.

“Beer,” I answer, unfastening my helmet and handing it to her, “For your safety. You’re the one driving us back home, and I refuse to be responsible for your drunken self.”

Layla lets out a laugh and nudges me lightly with her elbow, “Oh, come on, you make it sound like I can’t hold my liquor.”

“You can’t,” I say flatly, which only earns me another laugh.

After placing both helmets on the bike, she gestures towards the entrance. We step inside, and the shift in atmosphere is immediate—the smell of alcohol hits first, followed by the low voices of conversation. The bar is dim, lit mostly by amber bulbs. The jazz music curling through the air adds a strangely comforting tone beneath the chaos of laughter and clinking glasses.

“Find us a place, Mikhael. I’ll grab a pack,” Layla says, already heading for the counter where she spots the bartender. She greets him with familiarity, throwing her arms around him in a quick hug that earns her a cheer from one of the patrons nearby.

I shake my head, amused, and weave through the crowd until I find a table tucked away near the counter but still out of reach of the noisy group at the bar.

My thoughts drift back to the timid doctor—Optimo. There’s no doubt he’s the same person who messaged me last night, but his behavior today was a complete contrast. Why pretend not to know me? Maybe he’s the kind of person who’s more comfortable behind a screen. Maybe I was too direct…I should have given him space. That wasn’t like me.

I rake a hand through my hair, lost in thought, until a sudden clatter makes me jolt. Layla drops a cold pack of twelve beer cans onto the table with a triumphant grin before sitting down across from me.

“What’s got you thinking so loudly? I swear I can hear the gears grinding in your head,” she teases, both of us staring at the pack of beer cans.

We unpack the beer and each grab a can, the metal cool against our palms. Raising them high, we shout loud “cheers” that blends with the laughter and noise around us. The sound of clinking cans cuts through the music, and we both take a long swig. The cold beer slides down smoothly, leaving a faint bitterness that somehow feels comforting.

I keep my hand on the table, fingers tapping lightly against the can, “Did you see the doctor beside me?”

“You mean Optimo?” she asks, raising a brow.

“So you know him?”

“Well, he started working like…a month ago. He’s pretty new and doesn’t talk much. Hell, he doesn’t even smile.” She leans back in her chair, folding her arms, “He feels like a robot with how precise he is most of the time and when it comes to stealers’ attacks? The man’s unstoppable. He has an answer for everything. Not even the senior doctors are as good as him. It’s like he’s built his whole life around this.”

Her voice softens, “But he’s a good guy. I saw how he treated your dad. He’s gentle with him, like he’s his own father. That’s exactly what Mr. Lee needs right now. Honestly, I’m just glad Dr. Thompson is the senior and not the one handling your dad directly.”

I glance down, tracing invisible circles on the table, “But can I trust him?”

“That depends on you, Mikhael.” She tilts her head, gripping my hand in hers, “Mr. Lee is your father. You’re the one who decides that. Just go with your gut.”

Go with my gut…

Layla watches me with an amused grin as I’m trying to drown the questions running wild in my head when my phone rings. An unknown number flashes on the screen. I should ignore it, stay here, laugh with Layla, and let the world wait but something in me refuses to.

“I need to take this,” I say, already rising from my seat.

“Well, you take that, and I’ll go annoy Diego a bit more,” she teases, smirking as she heads toward the counter. Within seconds, she’s chatting with the bartender, their laughter blending with the liveliness of the bar.

I push through the crowd, brushing past a couple of swaying patrons, and finally step outside. The night air is cool, a quiet contrast to the warmth inside. Leaning against the brick wall, I answer the call and lift the phone to my ear.

“Hello, this is Mikhael Lee. Who is this?”

“Sir, This is from the Vastrian Government.” The woman’s voice is crisp, and instantly sobering. My fingers tighten around the phone.

“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number—”

“It wouldn’t be a wise decision to deflect anymore, Sir” she interrupts. Her tone carries weight, and I force myself not to hang up.

My pulse quickens as I lower my voice, “What do you want?”

“What we have been asking for quite some time,” she replies, her words cutting through the static, “We need your father.”

“I have refused the government’s interference every single time. Why don’t you just give up?” I say, my tone cold.

“Just like how you wouldn’t give up your father even after knowing that affording his treatment is nothing but a dream?” the woman counters.

A bitter scoff escapes me as I stare into the distance, the streetlight flickering weakly above. Her voice continues, calm but cutting. “It’s a futile attempt, Sir. I know how much you love your father, but giving him to the government is the only solution…the only way to bring him back.”

Her words claw at my chest, pressing down with the weight of unwanted truth. I clench my jaw, the phone trembling slightly in my hand but before I can respond, a sudden shout erupts from inside the bar, snapping me out of it.

“I’m busy. Stay away from my father and don’t ever call me again,” I snap and hang up, blocking the number before she can speak again.

I push open the door and step back inside, the noise swallowing me instantly. A small crowd has gathered near the table where Layla and I were sitting. My heartbeat picks up as I weave through the bodies, ignoring the slurred chatter.

When I finally break through, I see her—standing firm, her hand clenched around an empty can, her glare sharp enough to cut. In front of her towers a man twice her size, his voice threatening, but she doesn’t flinch.

I rush toward them without a second thought and wedge myself between the two. The man looks stunned, his brows drawn low, but I stand my ground even when Layla tries to tug me back.

“Gentleman! What seems to be the problem?” I ask, trying to sound calm even though my pulse is pounding. The man is taller, broader, and reeks of cheap alcohol. His thick beard hides most of his expression, but the anger in his eyes says enough.

“Problem? Ask the crazy bitch behind you!” he growls, his voice loud enough to draw more attention.

I barely have time to turn toward Layla before she takes her chance, stepping out from behind me and slapping him across the face. The sound cracks through the bar, silencing the nearby chatter.

I stare at her in disbelief as she huffs, drinking up from her half-finished beer can, “That’s what you get, pervert!” she spits out, her chest rising and falling with fury.

“Layla!” I shout, but it’s too late.

The man lunges, fury in his eyes, but Layla ducks behind me with a laugh that sounds way too proud for the situation. I catch her glance for half a second and then he grabs at me.

Before he can even register what’s happening, I seize his wrist, twist it, and slam him onto the nearest table. The wood creaks under his weight as I lock his arm in place. He groans in pain, his face pressed into the surface.

“Run,” I tell Layla firmly.

She doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the pack of beer and bolts toward the exit, shoving through the cheering crowd. I twist the man’s arm a little more for good measure.

“Let him go, Mikhael.” Diego’s voice cuts through the chaos. He’s standing near the table, his expression tired, like he’s seen this too many times before, “You should probably run too. He’s got friends, and they won’t be as polite.”

I sigh, release the man, and mutter a quick “Sorry” before backing away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement—three more men pushing through the crowd, all built like mountains. My instincts kick in. I turn and weave my way toward the entrance, ignoring the curses shouted behind me.

Outside, Layla is already astride her Ducati, revving the engine impatiently. The pack of beer sits wedged between her legs. She looks up with a grin that’s way too relaxed for someone who just started a bar fight.

“C’mon, passenger princess,” she calls out, tossing me a helmet.

I take it, climb on behind her, and she guns the engine. The bike roars to life, cutting through the cool night air as we speed off into the streets. I glance back once, the bar fading into the distance, lights blurring behind us.

“Well,” I mutter under my breath, tightening my grip around her waist, “that was an eventful night.”

“Why did you even start the fight?” I ask once we’ve put some distance between us and the bar, the wind rushing past my helmet.

“He touched my ass,” she snaps without missing a beat.

“Huh…” I raise a brow, then shrug my shoulders, “That was a fair reaction then.”

“Exactly!” she says proudly, the satisfaction in her voice loud even through the helmet.

A laugh escapes me, muffled by the wind as the bike roars down the street. The memory of her middle school days flashes through my mind—Layla, always the fearless one, never taking anyone’s crap no matter who they were. Back then, I used to be the one holding her bag while she threw punches at bullies twice her size.

Now, nothing’s changed. She’s still reckless, still bold, and somehow, I’m right behind her, laughing through the chaos.