"What do you think? I tried to make it really cinematic. I think it turned out pretty well."
…
Owen stepped out of the bar with his hands in his pockets, walking calmly toward Nicolás's car. As a celebrity surgeon, he earned more than enough to live like a movie star… though he never cared much for showing off.
The car waiting for him, however, told a different story: a blood-red Bentley Continental GT Speed, gleaming like a jewel under the streetlights.
"What a damn showoff," he muttered, shaking his head. "With what this car costs, I could buy a house... or three."
He opened the door, dropped into the leather seat, and started the engine. The low growl of the motor purred like pure luxury " not that he had time to enjoy it.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunshots. Not far off.
Owen's brow furrowed as he lowered the passenger-side window and listened. At least three shooters… maybe four. But before he could estimate more"
A silhouette turned the corner at full sprint, launched into a flawless leap, and slid cleanly through the open window, landing with feline precision in the seat beside him.
"Drive." The voice was firm. Natasha. And she was in no mood for explanations.
Owen barely had time to register what was happening. Three armed men burst from the alley, raising their weapons toward the car. His head buzzed with tension"his foot reacted before his brain.
He slammed the gas.
The Bentley roared to life and shot forward like a bullet.
The attackers didn't hesitate. They bolted toward their own vehicles. The chase was on.
It was a Friday night, and traffic gridlocked the city " especially in a district lined with bars. Owen weaved between cars like the Bentley was an extension of himself. Drivers screamed, others froze in place as the crimson blur skimmed past their bumpers.
A red light approached.
"Shit!" Owen snapped, wrenching the steering wheel.
The Bentley spun in a screeching U-turn, tires howling as it barreled into the intersection. The pursuing cars caught up " and gunmen leaned out their windows, opening fire.
Gunshots cracked through the night. Screaming brakes. Metal on metal. Cars crashed and swerved to avoid the chaos. Owen had to slow down, dancing through the debris of twisted fenders and shattered glass.
"This isn't a damn video game…" he growled, barely missing a flaming wreck.
The three enemy cars were closing in. Natasha twisted in her seat, drew a pistol from her jacket, and returned fire " but the bouncing vehicle threw off her aim. Bullets struck hoods and windshields with little effect.
"Tsk. Give me that," said Owen.
With one hand, he nudged her shoulder aside, grabbed the gun, and with the other, executed a controlled drift. He then leaned halfway out of the driver's side window and fired three rounds.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three perfect shots. Three enemy drivers dropped instantly, bullets clean through the forehead. Their cars spun out of control, slamming into poles, dumpsters, and walls in a cascade of destruction.
"All set," he said, tossing the pistol back onto Natasha's lap and making a sharp turn down a side street.
A few surviving gunmen stumbled from their wrecks and managed a few shots " but Owen was already gone. The Bentley vanished into the shadows of the city.
Minutes later, Natasha pointed to a quiet residential street. Owen braked, stepped out, and headed for the trunk.
Three bullet holes scarred the Bentley's crimson shell.
Natasha joined him, eyeing the damage.
"So… am I billing you or your boss?" Owen asked with a wry smile.
"I'm sure insurance will handle it," Natasha shrugged.
"Does insurance cover bullet holes?" he asked, now genuinely concerned.
"Send the bill to S.H.I.E.L.D.," she replied without blinking.
Owen sighed.
"Great. Just... no more strangers trying to kill me for stuff I didn't do."
"I'll keep that in mind."
He got back in. Natasha leaned through the open passenger window.
"Thanks for the ride."
Owen lifted a hand in silent farewell, never turning to look, and sped off.
When he reached home, he parked, got out, and took one last glance at the bullet holes.
"Whatever... Let whatever has to come, come."
He walked inside. That night, he slept like nothing happened.
"
The next day, around noon, Nicolás arrived by taxi, beaming from ear to ear. Owen, who had heard the engine from inside, stepped out to greet him… though he had no idea how he'd explain the car.
"Owen! You left early last night. The girl I was talking to was""
He stopped cold.
His eyes locked onto the Bentley.
"What the hell…?!"
The smile vanished. Horror crept in. He approached the car slowly, as if unsure his eyes were telling the truth. Sunlight glinted off the bullet holes in the side panel. It looked like James Bond himself had barely made it out alive.
"Well..." Owen crossed his arms. "Picked up a woman who brought... let's say, some unwanted company."
Nicolás stared, speechless. Then, without a word, he started inspecting the car like a surgeon checking for internal bleeding. He crouched, checked the tires, then shot upright.
"The tires too? What the hell did you do"race in a death rally?!"
"You're overreacting," Owen said with a shrug. "Just drifted a little."
"My poor baby!" Nicolás moaned, hugging the hood like it was a wounded animal.
"Come on, you've got the money. You can fix it… or buy something even better," Owen offered, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.
"Shut up! This car was the result of five years of blood, sweat, and surgeries! It reminds me of every night shift, every operation, every insufferable patient!"
Owen opened his mouth to remind him that an average worker couldn't buy that car in ten years " but held his tongue. Nicolás was being sentimental. Not the time.
"I'm sorry. Really. It's just a few bullet holes… and worn-out tires," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll take care of it. It'll be like new. Premium tires. Best in the world."
"The best ones?" Nicolás said between restrained sobs.
"Of course."
Nicolás stared at him for a few seconds. Then he sat up, wiped away his nonexistent tears, and crossed his arms.
"Damn bastard… I'm never lending you a car again."
Owen smiled, knowing his friend was beginning to forgive him.
At that moment, Nicolás's phone rang. It was the General. Nicolás answered, listened for a few seconds, and then raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"A yacht? A luxury one? Tickets for tonight?"
He hung up and looked at Owen with a grin that quickly widened.
"Well… Let's leave this baby at the shop. I guess I'll have to take the Mustang out tonight."
Owen rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, what a sacrifice," he snorted as the two of them walked toward the replacement car.
Despite the damage to his beloved Bentley, Nicolás was already in a better mood. After all, luxury was never in short supply… and the night was just getting started.
....
The dock shimmered under the golden lights of sunset, and the yacht moored there looked like a floating palace"elegantly lit and surrounded by figures dressed like movie stars. The soft music of a string quartet floated in the air while a red carpet stretched from the entrance to the pier.
Owen and Nicolás stepped out of the car with the confidence of those who knew they were about to steal the spotlight.
Owen wore a fitted black shirt that highlighted his muscular torso, each button done up to the chest, revealing a discreet yet expensive-looking chain. His dark jeans, perfectly tailored and held by a leather belt, contrasted with his slightly awkward demeanor. Dressing up like this wasn't his thing, much less for a party. But the woman who had helped him at the boutique"an explosive Italian who didn't know the meaning of "no""had made sure to convince him with a smile and a look that could have melted steel.
"Never leave me alone in a store with a woman like that again," he had told Nicolás.
"Exactly why I did it," Nicolás had replied with a grin.
Next to him, Nicolás walked like a runway model. He wore a white, Italian-cut suit, perfectly pressed, which contrasted with his golden skin and slicked-back blond hair. A gold chain dangled from his left ear, swaying slightly with each step. He looked like he had stepped out of a luxury magazine"and he knew it.
The two of them moved through the crowd, drawing admiring glances, whispered comments, and a couple of nudges from women in evening gowns watching them with interest.
"Are you counting how many people are checking us out?" Owen asked without breaking stride.
"No," Nicolás replied, "only the ones that matter."
They reached the entrance, where two security guards in black suits were checking invitations. Owen handed his over with a raised eyebrow.
"Who needs a VIP pass when you have this face?" he muttered.
"You need the pass. I get in anyway," Nicolás teased, winking at the hostess, who barely managed to suppress a smile.
Once aboard, the interior of the yacht wrapped around them like a movie scene: crystal chandeliers hung from the gleaming ceiling, the carpets were red velvet, and on either side of the main hall stretched gaming rooms of all kinds"poker, roulette, blackjack. Though the tables weren't open yet"according to the invitation, the games would start once they reached international waters"elegantly dressed dealers were already stationed at each table, ready for action.
The invitation had come from one of the General's old comrades, now working in private security. The General was no longer interested in such luxuries, so he had decided to pass them on to "his boys," as he called them.
Owen accepted a glass of champagne from a waitress in a black dress, but after a single sip, something caught his attention.
A flash of red.
A fleeting movement in the crowd.
Hair like fire under the golden lights of the salon.
His heart skipped a beat.
"No way…" he whispered, lowering the glass without taking his eyes off her.
It was impossible not to recognize her. That flaming red hair couldn't be mistaken.
The woman disappeared into the crowd before Owen could get a proper look. But it was her. It had to be.
And if she was here… then the night was about to get complicated.