The downpour turns the city into a smear of neon and glass, and I’m already late on the third drop of the night. My bike skids slightly as I cut between lanes, Zoe’s asthma meds clutched in the delivery box. Then—flash. A spotlight. Paparazzi. A black SUV doorslams open right in front of me.

I swerve. Metal screams. My helmet cracks against something solid—a man, stumbling back in a tailored coat, his face half-lit by camera bursts. Recognition hits a second later: Kael Titan, Hollywood’s golden boy, star of every movie Zoe has on repeat.

He stares at me, not angry, but… stunned. Rain drips from his jawline. Behind us, phones rise like weapons. Click. Click. Click.

‘You okay?’ he asks, voice low, cutting through the chaos.

I should bolt. But my bike won’t start. And his hand is out, offering more than balance—it’s a lifeline. Or a trap.