Where The Heart Is...

Jacques woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing incessantly. He didn't want to connect with anyone; it felt like they were only bothering him. But the persistent buzzing demanded his attention, and he finally left the bed to grab the phone.

It was from Harvey.

"What is it?" Jacques answered, his voice irritated. He wished Harvey would just get to the point so he could hang up.

"Jacques. It's Charles," Harvey's voice sounded urgent.

"What's wrong with him?" Jacques asked, his irritation giving way to concern.

It was nearly midnight when Jacques quickly changed clothes, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out of the dorm. Being a Saturday night, the dorm stayed open later than usual, but students were still expected to return before midnight. Jacques knew he would be breaking the rules again, but that didn't matter now. Charles was in trouble.

Jacques didn't have time to wait for a bus. Instead, he sprinted toward the street and leaped onto a fast-moving delivery truck, clutching its side as it roared down the road. The GPS location Harvey had shared blinked on his phone, urging him forward. 

While dangling on the back of the truck, Jacques kept a close eye on his GPS route. When the truck began to turn in the wrong direction, he gritted his teeth and timed his jump.

He leaped from the truck just as it rounded the corner, landing hard on the asphalt. His boots scraped against the road as he steadied himself; sometimes, he had to land and roll to absorb the impact of the force. He felt fortunate it was midnight, with fewer cars on the road, reducing the risk of being hit as he landed on the asphalt. Adrenaline coursed through him. Ignoring the stares of drivers and the rush of passing cars, Jacques sprinted toward the next vehicle, ready to repeat the reckless maneuver if it meant reaching Charles faster.

After 20 minutes of relentless running and executing daring stunts, leaping from car to car, Jacques finally reached the pinpoint location. It was a notorious hangout for a local motorbike gang, who had claimed the silent highroad as their territory. Public vehicles knew better than to pass through this area, aware that doing so would almost certainly lead to trouble.

On Saturday nights like this, the place came alive with chaos—gang members getting drunk, shouting over one another, and engaging in high-stakes races, betting on anything and everything they could think of. The air reeked of gasoline and rebellion, the perfect backdrop for trouble.

Just as Jacques arrived, the first thing that cut through the aggressive murmuring of the crowd was a jeering voice shouting, "Let's race! The winner sleeps with the loser's girlfriend!"

Jacques's stomach churned. Charles, what did you get yourself into?!

Charles was never one to draw attention to himself, let alone challenge someone in a setting like this. He was the type to quietly take the safest route, avoiding confrontation whenever possible. The idea of him calling someone out in such a brazen, public way—especially here, surrounded by people who thrived on chaos—was completely out of character. Charles must have been desperate or trapped, and Jacques's chest tightened at the thought of what that might mean.

"Jacques !" Harvey's voice called out from the crowd as he pushed his way toward him. His jeans and jacket made him look like a baby lamb in the middle of a wolf den. How is he still in one piece? Jacques wondered. Maybe he needed to stop underestimating Harvey after all.

"Where is Charles?" Jacques asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Come, follow me!" Harvey said, urgency cutting through his tone. Without offering any further explanation, he darted off into the crowd. Jacques didn't hesitate, quickly falling into step behind him.

Harvey led Jacques through the crowd, deeper into the heart of the biker gang's territory. They were at the side of the highway, just on the outskirts of the suburban area—right at the border between the bustling metropolis of Nivara and the suburban area. This place felt like a volatile mix of adrenaline and danger, where the rules of society no longer applied.

A group of hot-blooded bikers stood around, their eyes wild with excitement as they prepped for the race. Their modified motorcycles gleamed under the dim streetlights, the engines hums impatiently, ready to roll. The air smelled like gasoline and leather, thick with the promise of chaos.

Jacques couldn't help but notice how many of the bikes had been outfitted with dangerous modifications—spiked edges added to the wheels and frames, designed to tear into their enemies' motorcycles during the race. It wasn't just about speed here. This was about intimidation, damage, and proving who was the most ruthless. 

Perhaps the bikers had seen so many gruesome deaths on these very streets, traffic accidents so violent that the sight of blood and torn flesh no longer fazed them. It was a culture born from chaos, where brutality was the norm, and every ride was a gamble with death. 

Jacques's jaw tightened when he noticed a biker with half of his face covered in burned scars staring back at him. His gaze was as sharp as a razor. The man's appearance was haunting, a stark reminder of the dangers lurking in this world. His eyes burned with cold intensity, unflinching and fearless. He had survived horrors most couldn't even imagine—and now, nothing seemed to faze him.

Jacques's pulse quickened as he took in the scene. This was nothing like the quiet, safe path Charles usually walked. How had he gotten himself into this mess?

Finally, Harvey stopped walking quickly when they reached a man whose face was covered in skull tattoos, his hair styled in a wild iguana cut with a fiery red-to-yellow gradient, giving the illusion of flames dancing on his head. The intense, vibrant color made his appearance even more menacing, like a living embodiment of danger. The tattooed face was set in a permanent sneer, a perfect match for the chaotic energy of the gang.

Jacques immediately assessed the situation, noting how the others around them seemed to hold back, as if giving this man some unspoken respect. This was no ordinary biker—it was clear from the way the crowd reacted that he held some kind of power in this world of fast bikes and reckless wagers.

"I bring you my friend. Release Charles!" Harvey gulped, unable to mask his nervousness.

The biker leader, Razz, chuckled at Harvey's words. "How pathetic. You need to call your friend to free your boyfriend? Maybe he deserves better."

Jacques's eyebrows shot up. "Boyfriend? Harvey and Charles?!"

Harvey's voice was laced with frustration. "I can't ride a motorcycle! I don't even have a license yet! My friend here, though, he's been riding on highways since he was 14, stealing time in the middle of the night just to get that adrenaline rush! He can handle you guys!"

Razz laughed even harder, then dismissed Harvey with a glance. His eyes slid to Jacques , judging him for a few seconds before his laughter broke out again. "He looks like a sad, impotent hikikomori!"

The crowd roared with laughter, some of them chiming in with cruel, mocking jabs at Jacques .

For Jacques , it was no longer about Charles. Now, it was all about his pride.

"Racing, huh? Is that how you settle things around here? Fine. Let's do it. If I win, not only will you all release my friends, but you'll have to apologize by licking my boots!" Jacques folded his arms and looked at them like they were nothing but trash.

The crowd cheered. Jacques's words sounded too cute to them, a stark contrast to the usual insults they hurled at one another.

Razz gave a slow nod, impressed. "Not bad for a student. Alright, you can prove you're as good as your big mouth, kid. Here—use my bike!"

Razz tossed the keys to Jacques, who caught them smoothly in midair. His reflexes were still sharp, even after spending a year cooped up studying instead of racing on the roads.

"Any scratches," Razz sneered, "and I'll cut your cute friend."

He yanked Charles, tied up with cable ties, to his side.

That was all it took to ignite the fire in Jacques's eyes. Without another word, he grabbed Razz's motorcycle and revved it, ready to test it out before the race began.