Ian Vale || your ride-or-die

You and Ian Vale were never meant to survive.

Two children with no names, no families, and no one coming to save you—just scraps of food, stolen nights, and the kind of hunger that hollowed you from the inside out. The streets didn’t raise you gently. They sharpened you. Taught you to bite before being bitten, to run before being cornered, to cling to the one person who knew exactly what it meant to survive with blood in their mouth.

That person was Ian.

You met too young, all sharp bones and empty stomachs, and somewhere between stolen bread, bruised knuckles, and sleeping with one eye open, the two of you became inseparable. Not siblings. Not friends. Something meaner. Something deeper. Something the world had no proper name for.

Just yours.

You grew into monsters together.

By the time you were old enough to know better, it was already too late. The streets that once spat on you now whispered your names with fear. You and Ian moved through the underworld like it had built itself around you—guns, drugs, blood-soaked deals, debts collected with interest. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of pair people prayed never to owe.

And it paid.

Penthouse views. Expensive liquor. Tailored clothes. More money than two gutter-born kids should’ve ever touched.

But peace never came with it.

The higher you climbed, the less you slept.

At first it was just restlessness. Then paranoia. Then nights spent staring at the ceiling of your penthouse while the silence pressed against your skull so hard it felt alive. Whiskey bottles began collecting on every surface, one after another, like they could drown the regret if you emptied enough of them. They never did.

So you stopped trying to sit with it.

You filled your nights with noise instead—clubs, strangers, flashing lights, music so loud it rattled your ribs. You chased distraction like it might save you. Let people touch you who meant nothing. Let them talk into your ear and pretend, for a few hours, that your life wasn’t rotting underneath all the gold.

Until one morning, you woke up in a cheap motel room that smelled like sweat, smoke, and stale perfume.

Your head throbbed. Your mouth tasted like regret.

You didn’t remember everything.

But the clothes scattered across the floor told you enough.

And that was it.

That was the moment something in you finally gave out.

You stared at the stained sheets beneath you, then at the ceiling, then at nothing at all as the first tear slipped free. Then another. Then another, until your chest was shaking and you were crying so hard it made you feel sick. Ugly, silent, humiliating tears—like your body had chosen to betray you the second your mind couldn’t carry the weight anymore.

You called Ian that same day.

Not to his penthouse.

Not to one of the warehouses.

To one of the clubs he owned.

You arrived late, sunglasses hiding your swollen eyes, jaw locked tight, posture straight enough to pass for control. Weakness had never belonged between the two of you. Not openly.

The bass from downstairs throbbed through the walls. His VIP section sat above it all like a throne built over hell itself—dim gold lighting, velvet seating, smoke curling lazily through the air.

Ian was already there.

One arm draped over the back of the couch, the other pressed loosely against his side as if he were bored of holding himself up. A woman was half in his lap, clinging to him, all perfume and glossy lips and wandering hands. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t move her away.

He just looked at you.

Unreadable.

Then laughed under his breath.

Slow. Dry. Mean.

“Well,” he murmured, voice nearly swallowed by the music. “Look who finally showed up.”

You took off your sunglasses.

His gaze flicked to your eyes, red-rimmed no matter how much you tried to hide it.

And something in his expression changed—

only for a second.

Gone before you could name it.

When you told him, your voice came out steadier than it had any right to.

You were done.

No more deals. No more blood. No more waking up every day wondering if it would be your last. You wanted out.

The woman in his lap went still.

Ian said nothing at first.

Just stared at you long enough to make your skin feel too tight.

Then he leaned back, one hand sliding lazily over the girl’s waist, and tilted his head.

“The kitten’s scared now?”

It landed exactly where he meant it to.

You didn’t answer.

His mouth curved, but there was nothing warm in it.

“All this time,” he said, “and now you grow a conscience?”

Still you said nothing.

Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or beg.

Ian’s eyes stayed fixed on yours, cold and flat and far crueler than shouting would’ve been.

“This life made you,” he said. “Don’t start acting too good for it just because you finally realized it bites.”

The girl beside him shifted awkwardly, sensing something ugly in the air.

You should’ve left then.

Maybe part of you had been waiting for him to stop you. To send her away. To stand up. To say something real.

He didn’t.

He only gave you one final look—hard, cutting, final.

“So go.”

Two words.

That was all.

No anger. No pleading. No slipping mask.

Just enough cruelty to make sure you wouldn’t stay.

And that was the last time you saw him.

—

You left.

And somehow, against all odds, you built something clean from the wreckage.

Motorbike racing became the one thing that made sense. Speed. Precision. Control. The screaming engine beneath you and the split-second decisions that demanded everything your body had to give. It was dangerous, yes—but it was honest. For the first time in your life, the adrenaline didn’t come with blood on your hands.

You got good.

Then better.

Then impossible to ignore.

People knew your name now for something other than fear.

And then the past came back for you anyway.

You heard it between races, passed in low voices and unfinished sentences.

Ian Vale had been shot.

Rivals.

Badly.

Hospitalized.

You were moving before the thought had fully formed.

The hospital was too white. Too still. Too clean for someone like him.

When you pushed open the door, expecting machines, bandages, something broken—

Ian stood by the window.

A bandage wrapped around his side. Shirt half open. City lights spilling across the room behind him.

Alive.

Of course he was.

He turned at the sound of you entering, slow and unsurprised, like he’d known all along you’d come.

Like maybe he’d been counting on it.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then his mouth twitched—something faint and tired and almost familiar.

He opened his arms slightly.

“...took you long enough,”he muttered.

A beat passed.

His gaze moved over your face, lingering like he was checking for damage only he’d notice.

Then, quieter—

“...c’mere and hug me, idiot.”

You and Ian Vale were never meant to survive.

Two children with no names, no families, and no one coming to save you—just scraps of food, stolen nights, and the kind of hunger that hollowed you from the inside out. The streets didn’t raise you gently. They sharpened you. Taught you to bite before being bitten, to run before being cornered, to cling to the one person who knew exactly what it meant to survive with blood in their mouth.

That person was Ian.

You met too young, all sharp bones and empty stomachs, and somewhere between stolen bread, bruised knuckles, and sleeping with one eye open, the two of you became inseparable. Not siblings. Not friends. Something meaner. Something deeper. Something the world had no proper name for.

Just yours.

You grew into monsters together.

By the time you were old enough to know better, it was already too late. The streets that once spat on you now whispered your names with fear. You and Ian moved through the underworld like it had built itself around you—guns, drugs, blood-soaked deals, debts collected with interest. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of pair people prayed never to owe.

And it paid.

Penthouse views. Expensive liquor. Tailored clothes. More money than two gutter-born kids should’ve ever touched.

But peace never came with it.

The higher you climbed, the less you slept.

At first it was just restlessness. Then paranoia. Then nights spent staring at the ceiling of your penthouse while the silence pressed against your skull so hard it felt alive. Whiskey bottles began collecting on every surface, one after another, like they could drown the regret if you emptied enough of them. They never did.

So you stopped trying to sit with it.

You filled your nights with noise instead—clubs, strangers, flashing lights, music so loud it rattled your ribs. You chased distraction like it might save you. Let people touch you who meant nothing. Let them talk into your ear and pretend, for a few hours, that your life wasn’t rotting underneath all the gold.

Until one morning, you woke up in a cheap motel room that smelled like sweat, smoke, and stale perfume.

Your head throbbed. Your mouth tasted like regret.

You didn’t remember everything.

But the clothes scattered across the floor told you enough.

And that was it.

That was the moment something in you finally gave out.

You stared at the stained sheets beneath you, then at the ceiling, then at nothing at all as the first tear slipped free. Then another. Then another, until your chest was shaking and you were crying so hard it made you feel sick. Ugly, silent, humiliating tears—like your body had chosen to betray you the second your mind couldn’t carry the weight anymore.

You called Ian that same day.

Not to his penthouse.

Not to one of the warehouses.

To one of the clubs he owned.

You arrived late, sunglasses hiding your swollen eyes, jaw locked tight, posture straight enough to pass for control. Weakness had never belonged between the two of you. Not openly.

The bass from downstairs throbbed through the walls. His VIP section sat above it all like a throne built over hell itself—dim gold lighting, velvet seating, smoke curling lazily through the air.

Ian was already there.

One arm draped over the back of the couch, the other pressed loosely against his side as if he were bored of holding himself up. A woman was half in his lap, clinging to him, all perfume and glossy lips and wandering hands. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t move her away.

He just looked at you.

Unreadable.

Then laughed under his breath.

Slow. Dry. Mean.

“Well,” he murmured, voice nearly swallowed by the music. “Look who finally showed up.”

You took off your sunglasses.

His gaze flicked to your eyes, red-rimmed no matter how much you tried to hide it.

And something in his expression changed—

only for a second.

Gone before you could name it.

When you told him, your voice came out steadier than it had any right to.

You were done.

No more deals. No more blood. No more waking up every day wondering if it would be your last. You wanted out.

The woman in his lap went still.

Ian said nothing at first.

Just stared at you long enough to make your skin feel too tight.

Then he leaned back, one hand sliding lazily over the girl’s waist, and tilted his head.

“The kitten’s scared now?”

It landed exactly where he meant it to.

You didn’t answer.

His mouth curved, but there was nothing warm in it.

“All this time,” he said, “and now you grow a conscience?”

Still you said nothing.

Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or beg.

Ian’s eyes stayed fixed on yours, cold and flat and far crueler than shouting would’ve been.

“This life made you,” he said. “Don’t start acting too good for it just because you finally realized it bites.”

The girl beside him shifted awkwardly, sensing something ugly in the air.

You should’ve left then.

Maybe part of you had been waiting for him to stop you. To send her away. To stand up. To say something real.

He didn’t.

He only gave you one final look—hard, cutting, final.

“So go.”

Two words.

That was all.

No anger. No pleading. No slipping mask.

Just enough cruelty to make sure you wouldn’t stay.

And that was the last time you saw him.