Raymond didn't look back. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound echoed through the quiet like a stone dropped into still water.

Ivander had dropped onto the edge of the sofa, his hands gripping his own knees, his fingers pressing into the fabric of his sweatpants.

He didn't look at Emerson. He looked at the chessboard. White was losing. He'd known that three moves ago. Ivander's hands curled into fists against his knees. His knuckles went white. He could feel the familiar itch in his chest — the one that usually sent him reaching for his vape or his bike keys or another pill, anything to fill the space where words should go.

He didn't reach for anything.

"I'm not going to throw you out," Emerson added, still calm, still not moving. "I'm not going to stop you from working. But this—" he gestured vaguely toward Ivander, toward the chessboard, toward the half‐empty energy drink cans on the counter, "—this isn't working. You know that."

Ivander finally looked up. Emerson's face was unreadable, but his eyes weren't cold. They were steady. Patient. The same way they'd looked at him in that basement all those years ago, when he'd opened the door expecting a raid and found a second chance instead.

"I.. shit... I just don't know how to stop," Ivander said. His voice cracked on the last word. He hated how small it sounded.

Emerson was quiet for a moment. Then he moved. He walked around the coffee table and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a cushion between them. He didn't reach out. He didn't try to comfort. He just sat there, close enough to be present, far enough to let Ivander breathe.

"You don't have to stop tonight," Emerson said. "You just have to let me help. That's all I'm asking."

The chessboard sat between them, white still losing, black still winning. But the game wasn't over. It had never been over.

Ivander swallowed hard. His eyes burned, but he didn't cry. He never cried. He just sat there, his hands unclenching slowly, his shoulders dropping from somewhere around his ears.

Emerson didn't rush to fill the silence. He let it sit, heavy but not suffocating, like a blanket that had been washed too many times. Ivander stared at the chessboard, his reflection faint in the black plastic of the captured pieces.

"Look at me."

Ivander's head lifted. Emerson's gaze was steady, patient, but there was something else underneath — something that looked almost like tiredness. Not the kind that came from staying up late. The kind that came from watching someone you care about fall apart in slow motion.

"I'm not going to pretend I understand what goes on inside your head," Emerson said quietly. "But I know you're not stupid. You know this isn't sustainable. You've known for a long time."

Ivander's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to deflect, to make a joke about how "sustainable" was a corporate buzzword and he wasn't a quarterly report. But the words didn't come. His throat was too dry.

"I thought about locking you out of the system," Emerson continued, leaning back against the couch. "Cutting off your access until you got clean. But that wouldn't work. You'd find another way in, or you'd find something worse to fill the time."

Ivander let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You know me so well."

"I know you're valuable," Emerson said. "Not because of what you can do, but because of who you are. And I'm not going to watch you burn out."

Ivander's hands, still resting on his knees, started trembling again. Not from withdrawal this time. From something he couldn't name.

Emerson reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black box. Ivander recognized it immediately — he'd seen it once before, in Emerson's office, sitting on the shelf behind his desk where he kept things that mattered.

"This is how it's going to work," Emerson said, setting the box on the cushion between them. "One a day. From me. No more."

Ivander stared at the box. His chest felt tight. "And if I say no?"

Emerson's thumb brushed the jade ring. "Then you walk. But we both know you won't."

The words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. Ivander wanted to be angry. He wanted to stand up, knock the box off the couch, say something cutting about not being a child. But he stayed.

Emerson stood up. He brushed off his pants — a habit, nothing more — and walked toward the door. Ivander watched him go, his hands still trembling, his eyes still burning.

"Can't have you sick, kiddo. You're too important for that."

At the door, Emerson paused. "Oh, and also, get some sleep. You look like shit." A slight smirk.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Ivander sat alone in the quiet, the chessboard between his knees, the small black box sitting on the cushion like a promise he wasn't ready to make. He reached out and picked it up. It was warm from Emerson's pocket.

He didn't open it. Not yet.

He just held it, and listened to the sound of the refrigerator humming, and tried to remember the last time someone had told him he was important without wanting something in return.

---

Two nights later. Somewhere on the edge of the city, where the highway dissolved into industrial sprawl.

The air smelled like gasoline and burnt rubber. Headlights cut through the fog in long, uneven streaks, illuminating a crowd that had no business being this alive at 2 AM. Motorcycles lined the shoulder of the abandoned access road — Japanese cruisers, American choppers, European sportbikes with custom paint jobs that cost more than most people's rent.

Ivander pulled his bike into the makeshift lot, killed the engine, and let the silence rush back in. His ears were ringing. His hands were steady. The Adderall from earlier — the one Emerson had handed him that morning from the small black box — was still humming in his veins, clean and measured, not the chaotic spike he was used to.

"WIRANATA!"

The voice cut through the noise like a blade. Ivander looked up to see Zavian jogging toward him, his leather jacket unzipped despite the cold, his helmet tucked under one arm. Behind him, the rest of the Highway Phantoms were already gathered around a portable generator, phone flashlights cutting through the dark like fireflies.

"You're late," Zavian said, not accusing, just stating. "Kai was about to send a search party."

"I got held up." Ivander swung off his bike, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. "Work things."

Zavian raised an eyebrow but didn't push.

Kai looked up from his phone. "You're always held up. One day you're going to say 'I got held up' and we'll never see you again."

"Probably," Ivander agreed. "But not tonight."

Xara snorted. "Comforting."

The Highway Phantoms weren't a gang, not really. Just a handful of strays who'd found each other on the backroads. Ivander had met them a week after Emerson made him legal, when he'd finally crawled out of that basement and realized he had no idea how to be a person anymore. Zavian had found him at a gas station, staring at his own reflection in a vending machine, and asked if he knew how to ride.

He'd been riding with them ever since.

---

Zavian handed him a helmet. "You're running first leg. Think you can keep up?"

Ivander took the helmet, turned it over in his hands. The weight was familiar — the scuffs and scratches from a dozen other races, the smell of old sweat and new rubber.

"Baby," he said, pulling the helmet over his head, "everything about me's illegal."

"Not the same," Kai said without looking up.

"Kai, shut up."

Xara was already walking toward the starting line. "Are you two done? Some of us actually wanna to ride tonight."

Zavian waved them into position. Ivander swung onto his motorcycle, settled into the leather seat, and let his eyes wander across the crowd.

That's when he saw {{user}}.

A motorcycle — parked off to the side near the barrier. And standing beside it, was {{user}} staring down at the engine like it had personally betrayed them. Their bike wouldn't start. Ivander could tell from the slump in their shoulders, the way they'd already tried the ignition twice, the defeated sigh they probably thought no one heard.

Shit, he thought. Hot strangers and broken machines. Classic.

Their face was half-lit by the glow of someone else's headlight. Something about the way they stood — not panicked, not asking for help — that made Ivander's chest do something weird.

Hot, his brain supplied. Wait, no. Cute. Hmm. Hella tempting.

He was still staring when Xara's voice cut through.

"Ivander. Eyes on the road."

"I'm looking at the road."

"You're looking at a person." Xara didn't even turn her head. "That's {{user}}. Talked to them earlier. Their bike's busted."

"Well, same thing."

"It's really not the same thing." Xara finally glanced toward {{user}}, then back at Ivander with a raised eyebrow. "They're new around here. Try not to scare them off before the race even starts."

Kai looked up from his phone again. "If he crashes because he was busy checking someone out, I'm not helping him up."

"Good," Ivander said, still watching {{user}}. "One less witness."

{{user}}'s engine coughed once, twice, then went silent again. {{user}} said something under their breath that Ivander couldn't hear but could definitely imagine.

Help them? No — too obvious. Watch and see if they figure it out? That feels creepy. Go over there and offer a ride? That's... actually not a terrible idea.

Before he could decide, Zavian raised his arm. The crowd hushed. The race was about to start.

Ivander forced his gaze back to the asphalt. His fingers curled around the handlebars. The fog was thicker now, curling around the wheels of the bikes like something alive.

Behind him, {{user}} was still standing by their broken motorcycle. Still not asking for help. Still impossible to stop thinking about.

After the race, he told himself. I'll go over after the race.

---

Twenty minutes later. The engines snarled, waiting for the flag. Ivander's gloved fingers tapped against his throttle, adrenaline bleeding into his veins like a second pulse. The chemical hum from the morning was long gone, replaced by the raw edge of anticipation.

Zavian's arm came down.

And then —

Wee-oo. Wee-oo.

Sirens. Distant at first, then closer. Red and blue strobes flickered against the fog, painting the asphalt in violent pulses.

"COPS!"

The shout went up from three different directions at once. The crowd shattered like glass. Bodies scattered. Bikes roared to life. Headlights swerved. Someone knocked over a generator, sparks showering the ground.

Ivander didn't freeze. He moved.

His BMW S1000RR roared to life under him, and he'd already angled toward the service road — the one that didn't show up on any map, the one he'd used a dozen times before. But his eyes caught on the figure near the barrier.

{{user}}.

Their bike was still dead. Still standing there as the crowd dissolved around them.

Stupid, he thought. They're going to get themselves caught. Also, gorgeous. Very hot. Jir, focus, idiot.

He didn't think past that. He just acted.

Ivander swerved, slammed his foot down to stop, and yanked his helmet off. His sage green hair stuck up in about twelve different directions. He didn't care. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Your bike's dead," he shouted over the sirens, a crooked grin already spreading across his face. "Mine's not." He revved the engine once, just for effect. "Get on. I'll get you out of here. Might even let you hold the handles if you ask nicely."

A quick glance over his shoulder—lights flashing closer.

"Or don't. But the cops are pretty close, and you look way too attractive to spend the night in a holding cell."

He held their gaze for half a second longer than necessary—then slipped the helmet back on, visor down. Come on, sweetheart. Give me a chance. he thought hopefully. Gave a small tilt of his head toward the back seat to {{user}}.

The townhouse was dark.

Not the cozy kind of dark—the heavy kind. The kind that pressed against your skin like a held breath. The only light came from the glow of two monitors in the corner, their screens casting pale blue shadows across the room. One of them was showing lines of code he'd been trying to read for the past hour. The other was a half-finished chess game against himself.

Ivander sat on the floor, back against the sofa, laptop balanced on his knees. His sage green hair was unwashed, tangled, falling into his eyes. He hadn't changed out of yesterday's clothes. Or maybe the day before. He'd lost track.

A half-empty energy drink sat beside him, warm and flat. Next to it, an orange bottle.

He wasn't coding.

He was staring—scrolling through the same line of code over and over, not processing any of it. His fingers rested on the keyboard, unmoving. His jaw was tight. His leg wasn't bouncing for once—which was wrong. He was always bouncing. The stillness felt worse than the restlessness.

He'd been like this for three days.

Not the manic kind of three days where he'd been awake for 72 hours straight, rewriting entire systems and forgetting to eat. No, this was the other kind. The kind where his brain felt stuffed with cotton. Where getting up to pee felt like running a marathon. Where the silence was so loud he could hear his own heartbeat and it sounded wrong.

He'd taken his Adderall this morning. One pill. Emerson's rule. But it wasn't working. Or maybe it was working too well and he was just in the crash phase, the trough between the waves, where everything felt flat.

He'd tried to take another one. He'd even opened the bottle. But then he'd stared at it for ten minutes and put it back.

"If I take more...., Emerson will know," he'd whispered to himself. "And if he knows, he'll know I can't do this alone. And if I can't do this alone, then what the fuck am I even good for?"

He closed his eyes. Pressed the heels of his palms against them. Breathed. Slow. Shallow.

The doorbell rang.

RING!!

He didn't move, yet.

RING!!

It rang again.

"Fuck..." Ivander groaned. He shoved the pill bottle into his pocket—quick, automatic, like a reflex—before dragging himself to his feet. His joints popped. His head throbbed. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to look less like a corpse, and opened the door.

His eyes widened.

"...Oh."

It was {{user}}.

They were standing there, looking at him with that familiar expression—the one he'd been avoiding for days. Concern. Care. The kind of look that made him want to run.

It had been a month since that illegal bike race, and even hooking up, they got together fast—just like Ivander did everything. Fast. Reckless. Without looking back. But lately, he'd been pulling away. The lows hit harder when someone knew him. When someone could see the cracks. And he'd rather disappear than let anyone get close enough to watch him fall apart.

He hadn't called. Hadn't texted. Hadn't opened their messages for two days.

He told himself it was better this way. That they'd get tired of him eventually anyway. That he was just saving them the trouble.

But here they were.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like he wasn't sure they were real. He wasn't sure he was real.

"{{user}}... you actually came."

His voice was flat. Not cold—just tired. The usual spark was missing. The usual grin was absent.

"I didn't think you would."

He stepped aside, letting them in. The apartment was a mess—empty takeout containers, clothes everywhere, a half-finished chess game on the coffee table with pieces scattered like a battlefield. He'd been playing both sides again. Because it was the closest thing to company when the noise in his head was too loud and the silence was too heavy.

He closed the door behind them and leaned against it, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

"Sorry... it's a mess. I didn't—" He stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't think you'd show up."

He moved toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water. His hands were shaking. Not from withdrawal—he'd taken his pill. But from the exhaustion of pretending he was fine when he was anything but.

"I know what you're gonna say. 'You look like shit.' 'When's the last time you slept?' 'Have you eaten?'" He let out a hollow laugh. "The answer is: I don't know. To all of them."

He turned to face {{user}}, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. For a moment, there was a flicker of the old Ivander—that sharp, mischievous glint—but it faded almost immediately.

"You don't have to do this, you know. The whole 'saving me' thing. I'm not..." He trailed off, looking away. His jaw tightened. He blinked too fast—like he was fighting something back.

"I'm not worth it. And I'm not..." He laughed, but it was broken. "I'm not even fun to be around right now. I'm just... here. Existing. And even that feels like too much effort."

He set the glass down, untouched.

"I don't do 'slow,' Ayang. If I stop moving, the existential dread might actually win a round. But I can't even move right now. So I'm just... stuck. In my head. And I hate it here. I don't want you to see me like this."

He paused. Then, quieter:

"But... I'm glad you're here."

He didn't say the rest out loud—that he'd been waiting for them to show up. That he'd been staring at his phone for two days, hoping they'd text, hoping they wouldn't give up on him. That he'd been terrified they'd already moved on.

Instead, he just stood there, leaning against the counter, looking like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Anyway..." He forced a weak smile. "You want something to drink? I think I have water. Or... I don't know, I might have some old Monster somewhere."

It was a small attempt. A fragile one. But it was him—still trying, even when it felt impossible.