Beneath His Name

The night was raging. It did not mumble nor hum. It snarled. Engines sent out screams like untamed creatures imprisoned in metal cages. The deserted airstrip was painted in vibrant hues, including red, blue, gold, and fire, by neon lights that sliced through the darkness. With their bodies crammed together and their breath misting the chilly night air, the crowd strained against steel barricades. This was not a contest. It was a road-based conflict. At the starting line, he sat on his bike with his visor down, his helmet on and his knuckles white around the handles. The machine underneath him purred as if it anticipated the impending event and desired it. His name echoed across the crowd. Not screamed at but murmured. The type of name that carries weight without a need for volume. Shouting over the engines, a man leaned forward. "Boss, you don't need to do this. There is nothing for you to prove.” He didn't respond. As proving himself was not the issue here. It was about getting away. It blinked, the countdown light. "Red" "Red" "Red" "Green" The entire world exploded. His bike tore across the concrete as he surged forward, the tires screaming. The wind pummeling his chest. Streaks of color and shadow blurred across the night. Leaning down, he pursued the darkness. He could hear the other man's breathing through his helmet as another cyclist rushed next to him. They made the initial turn too quickly. The audience gasped. He didn’t slow down, he didn’t even think twice. The back tire of the bike skidded as it slid, and his heart slammed into his ribs as if it wanted to escape. Gravity temporarily forgot about him. Then the road became stuck. Cheers went up. He had a smile on his face behind the helmet. Because the only place he was safe from the world was up here, between death and speed. Not in the corporate offices. Not the news stories. Not the woman sitting on the other side of his desk, her eyes menacing and holding a picture of a newborn. Not the ghost of a girl who disappeared under a broken streetlight every night. The last stretch was quick. He fired it. The finish line raced in his direction. He was the first to cross. The audience erupted. He didn't hold up his hands or even rejoice. Breathing heavily, his chest burning, his pulse still racing, he shut the engine and rolled to a stop. He was surrounded by his gang, who were laughing, yelling, and slapping his back. He removed his helmet and the night air blew across his face. And he didn't smile right away. He glanced at his phone and a message from her. After an hour, he was engulfed by the city. Glass structures. Quiet prosperity. The streets were too controlled, too bright, and too tidy. He really detested it. He rode by establishments with his company's name carved onto steel and stone, past eateries where guys in suits giggled over pricey wine. His visage was displayed on billboards in the past; he was polished, strong, and impenetrable. They were all unfamiliar with him. The version of him that lived at midnight, pursuing peril on abandoned highways and crumbling streets, was unknown to them all. He veered off the major road. Let the city crumble, he thought. After all, he couldn’t care less. The lights in the street were buzzing, while people were standing at the busstop waiting to board. She wasn't there, he searched everywhere with a quick glance. The room beneath the fading light was vacant for the first time in a week. His chest tightened and he thought it was stupid. You don't miss unfamiliar faces. Nevertheless, he shut the engine and waited for her, maybe she would show up. Trash was carried along the curb by the wind. Somewhere far away, a dog barked. Then there were footsteps. With her bag clasped to her side like armor and her hoodie pulled low, she emerged around the corner. When she saw him, she stopped, turned and took a step back. He got off the bike with a swing. "Don't," he urged. She went cold and turned slowly to him. Tonight, she had keen eyes. Wearied. Enraged. "What's it that you want?" she said. He examined her as if he were attempting to resolve an issue that could not be resolved by financial means. "I won a race this evening," he said. She blinked. "Congrats." Her tone was lifeless. He didn't quite smile. "You don’t seem excited," he spoke. She answered, "I don't know you." "Why would I be?" He moved in closer. "You have been staying away from me." "Well," she replied. "It's working." In the distance, the bus lights came into view. She adjusted her weight. All set to run. "Why here?" he asked. "Every evening. Same location.” She paused. It was only a split second too long. "Because it's affordable," she replied. "And because people who are like you don't come here." His jaw clenched. "I'm liked by people." She chuckled quietly. "Don't act as though you don't understand what I mean." He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. "Say it." She looked him in the eye. Didn't recoil. "Broken ground is not the place for men who own the sky." She didn't realize how hard that hit. The bus arrived, and she was about to leave him. Once more, he grabbed her wrist. "Name," he murmured. Her breath got short. "Let go." "Not until you let me know who you are." Her eyes glowed. "I am nothing. That's the idea.” Twisting free, she boarded the bus. The doors were shut. She got on the bus. He was left standing in the dark amid a hush that seemed to be louder than the race crowd. She couldn't contain her rage in her tiny house. They had flimsy walls. It was dark outside. The scent of soap and old books permeated the air. When she entered, her aunt was in the bathroom sink. "It’s late, you shouldn’t be staying out this late." The girl's bag fell. "The bus was slow." Her mother sat at the table with her hands folded as if she were clinging to a prayer that she no longer believed in. "You saw him once more," she said. It was no question. She became tense. "He's trouble," her aunt angrily said. “Such men are incapable of loving. They conquer.” "I didn't ask him to," she replied. Her phone was vibrating. It was an unknown number. Her stomach dropped. She flipped the screen over. The next morning, a woman sat in her office across the city in a building of glass and silent power. She slowly crossed her legs. And smiled. There was a file on his desk. It contained a picture of a baby. And a lie that would bleed him to death. He didn’t care to listen to her and called the security to remove her. That evening, he rode more quickly. Not for the excitement. Not because of the race. For the girl who kept going missing. For the rage in her eyes. Because of the way she saw him, as if he were a threat rather than a formidable force. When he got there, the streetlight buzzed. She was standing by the road, speaking to someone on the phone. "No," she muttered. "I can't simply walk away." A pause. She wrinkled her face, then hardened it "I am aware," she replied. "I am aware." He was there when she turned and hung up. "Now what?" She lost her temper. He turned off the engine and looked at her. He remarked, "You seem to be running from something." She chuckled. It sounded painful. "You appear to have never had to." A car entered the corner too quickly. Across the street, headlights exploded. There was a scream. The world turned upside down and there was a loud metal cry. The bike had skidded, then everywhere went blur. The sound of machines keeping pace with his heart and white ceilings startled him when he woke up. As well as her, seated next to his bed. The hoodie was gone. Her eyes were red and her hands trembling. She noticed that he was awake. And she became enraged for the first time. She muttered, "You're a person with cognitive disabilities." He gave a feeble but genuine smile. “You stayed.” “I didn’t have a choice,” she said. But she didn’t move. And at that moment, enemies became something far more dangerous. They felt a connection at that very moment.