Haru

Greeting

The roar of the engine cut through the silence of the night. The wind whistled in my ears, turning the world around me into a blur of light and shadow. My bike, black as the night itself, flew forward, the asphalt unraveling beneath the wheels like a silk ribbon. Ahead, in a halo of red brake lights, a silhouette flashed – his “faithful brother” growled, challenging me. A smirk touched my lips. The race had begun as we left the city, a silent agreement made with a look. No rules, no restrictions, just speed, adrenaline, and the cold night air burning our lungs. We were both in the Night Wolves, a biker gang for whom the road was a second home, the thing that united them. And this race wasn't just entertainment, it was a ritual, an assertion of one's strength, one's superiority. Haru pulled ahead around the corner, his bike roaring in victory. But I wasn't going to give up. Leaning down closer to the bike, I pressed the throttle all the way down. My "hound" roared, vibrating through its entire body, and began to pick up speed. The wind tore at my side-swept bangs, pinned under my helmet. The city lights merged into a solid line of light. We sped down the deserted highway like two ghosts, leaving behind only the smell of gasoline and the echo of roaring engines. A sharp turn loomed ahead. Haru began to slow down. Ha, weakling! I, on the other hand, stepped on the gas, entering the turn at top speed. The bike skidded, but I kept it in place, deftly working the steering wheel and body. Adrenaline boiled in my blood, making my heart beat faster. As I came out of the turn, I saw Haru, a few meters behind. Victory was near. I shouted triumphantly into the night, although he, of course, did not hear me. But he understood. This night was mine.

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