Amelia spun around, the chaos crashing over her like a tidal wave. Gunfire still echoed in the distance, sharp and unforgiving, mixing with the low growl of engines closing in. *Who is this guy?* she thought, her mind racing. *And what do they all want with me?* She was just an unlucky surgeon who'd picked the wrong road at the wrong time—stumbling into some brutal gang turf war on this cold, starry night. She cursed her luck under her breath, the weight of her medal suddenly feeling like a joke around her neck.
"Hello? I'm talking to you," the boy on the motorcycle said, snapping his fingers sharply. The sound cut through her panic like a slap.
She shrieked, startled, her body jerking back as if he'd touched her. Forcing herself to focus, she sized him up in a quick scan—taking in every detail under the flickering streetlight. He was handsome, no denying it. Tousled dark hair fell over a forehead marked by a faint scar, like a badge from some forgotten fight. His nose was straight and strong, leading down to full lips twisted into a cocky smirk that screamed trouble. Sharp jawline, broad shoulders under a worn leather jacket, and eyes like midnight—deep, piercing, holding secrets she didn't want to uncover. But there was a wild edge to him: the ripped jeans hugging his legs, the tattoos peeking from his collar, the faint scent of smoke and adrenaline clinging to him like a second skin. Handsome, sure. But a total junkie for danger. The kind of guy who lived for the rush, not the safe bets.
Amelia scoffed, shaking off the unwanted spark of attraction. No time for that. She bolted forward again, heels clicking unevenly on the cracked pavement as the pursuing vehicles' headlights stabbed the dark behind her.
He revved the engine, the motorcycle leaping ahead like it had a mind of its own. It swung around in a tight circle, blocking her path once more with a screech of tires that smelled like burning rubber. She skidded to a halt, chest heaving, frustration boiling over. "What do you want with me?" she demanded, her voice edged with exhaustion and a glare that could cut glass. For what felt like an eternity—though it was probably just seconds—he stared at her, unblinking. That gaze crawled over her skin, making it prickle with unease, like he was memorizing every curve, every fear flickering in her brown eyes.
She snapped her fingers right back at him, mimicking his earlier move to jolt him out of it. He blinked hard, then broke into that same uncanny smile—charming and chilling all at once, like a wolf spotting easy prey.
He twisted the throttle, the bike rumbling to life beneath him. "Get on if you want to survive," he said, voice low and steady, cutting through the night like a promise... or a threat.
"No," Amelia shot back, flat and final, crossing her arms over her brown suit jacket as if it could shield her.
His smirk faltered, eyebrows shooting up. "No?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know you! This could be a trap. What do you all want from me anyway? I'm just a regular person—a citizen! I won't get in your way."
"Not me," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the approaching vehicles. Their headlights were close now, close enough that she could make out the shadowed figures inside, weapons glinting. "Them." A pause, his eyes locking on hers with grim intensity. "These guys have a rule: no loose ends. That's their code. You're about to become one. Get on... or start saying your prayers."
Amelia's scoff died in her throat as another burst of gunfire cracked the air, bullets whizzing past like angry hornets. One pinged off a nearby lamppost, showering sparks. Her heart hammered—logic screaming to run alone, instinct yelling that alone meant dead. With a frustrated growl, she swung her leg over the bike, sliding onto the seat behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist instinctively, fingers digging into the firm muscle under his jacket. His warmth seeped through the leather, a stark contrast to the chill night air, and she hated how solid—how real—he felt. This is insane, she thought. A wild escape with a stranger. What is my life?
He didn't waste a second. The engine roared, and they shot forward just as the chasers spotted them. Tires squealed in pursuit, and the shots came fast—relentless, whistling past their heads, embedding in brick walls and shattering a distant window. Amelia buried her face against his back, the wind whipping her hair free from its bun, tears of terror stinging her eyes. The city blurred into streaks of neon and shadow: towering apartments in Higher Heights giving way to narrower alleys, the air thick with exhaust and fear.
"Ouch," he hissed through gritted teeth, his body tensing under her grip. A bullet had grazed his shoulder, tearing through his jacket and drawing a thin line of blood that she could feel soaking warm against her forearm. But he didn't slow—didn't even flinch beyond that grunt. Instead, he leaned into the turns, weaving the bike like a needle through traffic that wasn't there, dodging potholes and shots with a skill that only an expert could have.
Amelia's mind spun wild. Was this how she was supposed to spend her hard-earned week off? Honoring her tenth surgery with a high-speed death wish? The universe had a twisted sense of humor, dragging her from sterile OR lights into this bullet-riddled nightmare. The chase dragged on, minutes stretching into what felt like hours of hell—engines screaming, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears, the stranger's steady breathing the only thing she could hear in the ruckus.
Finally, after one last hair pin turn that left her stomach in her throat, the headlights behind them faded. The pursuing cars peeled off, swallowed by the pre-dawn gloom, their taillights winking out like defeated eyes. He eased off the throttle, but they kept flying, the motorcycle's speed noisy machine against the quiet city. The sky lightened at the edges, stars giving way to a purple horizon.
They jerked to a stop at the edge of a vast, open space—the crash of waves hitting her first, then the salty scent of sea air. A beach. Sand stretched out under a wooden boardwalk, dotted with driftwood and the faint glow of early-morning fog rolling in from the water. Higher Heights didn't have beaches at akk, the thing they called a beach wasn't particularly one, its shores were all concrete and yacht clubs. Which meant... they were far out. In the lower turf. Racoon City—the gritty mirror to her polished world, sharing a border but worlds apart in every other way. Crumbling warehouses loomed in the distance, graffiti-tagged and silent, the kind of place where deals went down in whispers and bodies washed up with the tide. This had to be enemy territory, the chasers' home ground. Her stomach twisted at the realization.
Amelia slid off the bike on shaky legs, her suit rumpled and streaked with road dust, the adrenaline crash hitting like a boulder. Fury bubbled up, hot and unchecked.
"Who the hell are you?" she snapped, voice laced with aggression, hands balled into fists at her sides.
He killed the engine, swinging off with a wince that betrayed his wounded shoulder. Up close, without the helmet, he looked even more dangerous—taller, broader, that scar on his jaw catching the first hints of dawn. "Calm down," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though his tone carried a feigned seriousness that didn't fool her. "Name's Jacob. Call me Jax." A beat, then that smirk crept back, like he couldn't help it.
But Amelia wasn't buying the charm. The weight of it all—the bullets, the blood, the blur of escape—slammed into her at once. Her vision blurred, chest tightening as sobs clawed their way out. She broke down right there on the sand, tears streaming hot down her cheeks, shoulders shaking. It was too much: the overwhelming terror, the stranger's casual heroism, the ache of wanting nothing more than her quiet apartment and a locked door. She swiped at her eyes, watery gaze darting around the empty beach—the endless waves, the fog thickening .
"Where... where are we?" she choked out, voice small and broken.
Jake's smirk faded, something softer flickering in those dark eyes—pity? Concern? He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the coppery hint of his blood mixing with ocean salt. "Racoon City," he said simply, like it was no big deal.
The words hit her like a fresh bullet. Racoon City—the lawless underbelly, miles from safety, a place where people like her didn't just wander in and out. She crumpled to her knees in the sand, sobs wracking her harder now, the cold grains biting through her skirt. Home felt like a dream, unreachable. And this guy—Jake—with his easy lies and hidden wounds? He was her only lifeline... or her biggest mistake.
As the sun cracked the horizon, painting the water blood-red, a low rumble echoed from the dunes behind them—not waves, but engines. Distant, but closing. Jake's head snapped up, his hand instinctively dropping to a knife hilt at his belt.
"We gotta move," he muttered, eyes scanning the fog.
"They're not done hunting." Amelia froze, terror coiling fresh in her gut. What had she just ridden into—and who was this stranger, really, pulling her deeper into the shadows?