Gwendolyn Morris worked at a large pharmacy situated near the bustling business district. Even though the street across was teeming with cars, customers were sparse by nine in the evening. At ten o'clock sharp, Gwendolyn clocked out. She switched off the lights, locked up, and headed to her scooter parked nearby, dialing Joey Davis on her phone as she walked.

Headlights from passing cars occasionally lit her way. It was that time of year when the temperature swung significantly from day to night, and the evening breeze was brisk. Gwendolyn wore the pharmacy’s standard blue scrubs beneath a black down jacket, her hair neatly tied in a bun, as per the store’s dress code.

Her phone emitted an automated message: "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable." Gwendolyn's elegant brows furrowed. She tried calling again twice, still no answer. Joey, who had worked an early shift today, should have been home by now. He'd recently started an Instagram account and often tinkered with it in their rented apartment after work. It was likely he wasn't answering because he was still busy selling drinks at the club.

Putting her phone away in her jacket pocket, Gwendolyn hopped on her scooter, donned her helmet, and merged into the traffic.

Inside the club’s private room, Joey was working with a rather agreeable client for the first time. He had managed to sell over a dozen bottles of alcohol, each priced above a thousand dollars, with some costing five figures—promising a hefty commission. Joey roughly estimated he could earn five to six thousand dollars tonight.

The dozen or so guests were animatedly engaged, clearly enjoying themselves. Yet one man sat alone, quietly nursing his drink in the dimmest corner of the room, disconnected from the festivities. While focusing on his client, Joey couldn't resist stealing glances at this solitary figure. With the dim lighting, Joey couldn't discern his face, yet something about him seemed oddly familiar.

A striking woman with a bob cut beckoned Joey. "Hey, handsome, come over here and tell me about the bottle next to you. If you impress me, I’ll take ten." The bottle was over a thousand dollars. Joey felt a thrill at the prospect of such a sale. It was indeed a night for witnessing the extravagance of wealth.

He quickly grabbed the bottle, crouched next to the woman, and began his pitch. After barely two sentences, she teasingly lifted his chin with her finger, remarking, "Up close, aren't you the same guy Mariana Griffin couldn’t snag? I heard the night she took you home, you called your girlfriend to pick you up from the Griffin estate. You’ve got guts, kid."

A man nearby sneered, "Guts? More like clueless. He had it easy and didn’t even know it." The woman laughed, "You don't get it. This is like straight out of a romance novel, pure drama."

Joey frowned and gently pushed the woman's hand away.

Chandler Hunter turned his gaze from Joey, making his way to the lone man sitting deep in the recesses of the private room. The laughter and chatter seemed detached from Marco Griffin, who was lounging on the couch, deep in thought. Chandler lit a cigarette for Marco and sat beside him. "What’s on your mind? You threw this party but are just brooding here?"

Marco replied nonchalantly, "Watching you all have fun is entertainment enough for me."

He wore silver-framed glasses with a silver-white shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of his collarbone. Combined with his strikingly handsome face, he was alluring. He inhaled deeply, lounging back and staring at the soft glow of the ceiling light. Images of Gwendolyn’s face flitted through his mind as smoke curled from his lips. He wondered how she'd react if he blew smoke in her face. Would her meticulously composed demeanor crack?

Chandler nudged Marco, asking, "What’s got you lost in thought? That expression..." He paused, then muttered, "Like a predator sizing up prey." He glanced at Joey, who was tidying up the remaining bottles, ready to leave. Chandler chuckled, noticing, "Quite stubborn, isn’t he? A few jokes and he’s ready to walk out. Marco, I must admit, your sister knows how to pick them."

Marco didn’t respond to Chandler, his attention fixed on Joey. As Joey carried the drink basket out the door, a colleague’s voice reached them: "Hey, Joey, your girlfriend’s here to pick you up. Lucky guy, she’s..."

The door closed, cutting off the rest of the comment. Marco stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, tossed on his jacket, and headed out.

Chandler stood up, calling, "Heading home already?"

Others in the room turned their attention to Marco as he left.

Without looking back, Marco waved to Chandler, "Enjoy your night; drinks on me."

The room erupted in cheers while Chandler hurried to catch up with Marco.

"I’ll join you."

Gwendolyn was seated in the club’s lobby area, looking up to see Joey approaching. She rose with a smile, meeting him halfway. Joey brushed her cheek gently. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s too cold on the roads; you might catch a cold on your scooter. Don’t come to pick me up next time. I can take the subway home.”

Gwendolyn held his hand, asking, "Drank much?"

Joey nodded, "A bit, had to for the clients, but not much—just a glass."

She felt a twinge of concern. Joey’s stomach wasn't great with alcohol, and drinking without eating wasn't wise. She pulled a warm sandwich from her pocket, wrapped carefully, and offered it to Joey. "Bought this on the way here. Kept it warm in my pocket. It’ll help with your stomach. Can we eat here, or should we step outside?"

Joey took a big bite directly from her hand. "No worries, a couple bites and it’s gone."

Holding Gwendolyn’s hand, he finished most of the sandwich in just a couple of bites.

She teased, "Skipped dinner again?"

Joey swallowed his last bite, chuckling sheepishly while pulling her into a hug. “Too busy, lost track of time.”

Gwendolyn looked up from his embrace, pretending to be stern. Joey quickly promised, "Next time, I’ll eat on time."

She poked him lightly in the chest, admonishing him, "Take care of your stomach."

Joey draped an arm over her shoulder, guiding her out. "Got it, let’s head home."

Unnoticed, Marco watched them leave, his expression darkening.

In the car, Chandler glanced at Marco in the back seat. "Didn’t you load up a hundred grand at the club just last year? Already burned through it? You’re too generous, topping up yourself like that."

Marco ignored Chandler, his focus on the scooter ahead—Gwendolyn hugging Joey tightly.

The club was in the city center, and even at nearly eleven at night, the traffic was still heavy. As the car approached Gwendolyn and Joey, Marco fixed his gaze on them and coldly instructed the driver, "Hit them."

"Hit him—hit the man on the moped."

...

For Gwendolyn Morris, the whole situation felt like a disaster. She had been resting her cheek against Joey Davis's back, eyelids heavy with drowsiness, when out of the blue, a car sped toward them.

They both went tumbling to the ground; Joey bore the brunt of the fall. The weight of the moped pinned him down, his face twisted in pain. Thankfully, their helmets minimized the risk of a head injury.

Gwendolyn scrambled to her feet, limping slightly as she attempted to lift the moped. Two individuals stepped out of the car that had hit them. One of them reached out a hand to help her, a firm and capable gesture. Above her, a gentle, familiar voice spoke.

"I'm really sorry, it's entirely our fault. Are you okay?"

Startled, Gwendolyn looked up to see Marco Griffin, his eyes filled with concern. His expression turned to surprise when he recognized her. "Miss Morris, is that you?"

Gwendolyn hadn’t expected Marco to be involved in the accident. Her rising anger had to be tamped down.

The driver helped Joey to his feet and bowed slightly in apology. "I'm truly sorry. I got distracted. This is all my fault."

Concerned and sincere, Marco instructed the driver, "Uncle Jake, Mr. Davis looks hurt. Take him to the hospital right away." Then, turning back to Gwendolyn with deeper remorse, he said, "Miss Morris, I noticed your ankle seems injured too. Why don’t you come to the hospital with us to get it checked out?"

Joey clutched his side, his eyes full of worry for Gwendolyn. "Gwen, let's go to the hospital."

Gwendolyn glanced at the moped parked awkwardly by the roadside. They had just bought it, and she was reluctant to leave it unattended, especially since it was in a no-parking zone.

Sensing her hesitation, Marco offered a solution. "How about this: Uncle Jake can take Mr. Davis to the hospital immediately since his injury seems worse. I can help you find a safe place to park the moped, and then we can head to the hospital together. Does that sound okay?"

She nodded, concern for Joey evident as she turned to him, gently squeezing his hand. "Go have them check your side. I'm fine—I dressed warmly."

Still worried, Joey said, "But your ankle..."

Indeed, her ankle was twisted, but it wasn’t serious. Gwendolyn smiled, shaking her head. "It’s nothing major. Go on. I’ll meet you after we park the moped."

In significant pain, Joey didn’t argue further. He allowed Uncle Jake to help him into the car.

As the sleek black vehicle merged into the nighttime traffic, Marco turned to the moped with an apologetic look. "I'm not sure if it's still rideable. Should I call for a tow?"

"No need for a tow," Gwendolyn replied, stepping forward to test if the moped could still start. Her twisted ankle, however, made her wince, and she stumbled.

Marco quickly reached out to steady her with his firm arm. Gwendolyn flinched back as if startled, pulling her arm away.

Feeling a bit awkward, Gwendolyn wasn’t sure how to explain her reaction.

Marco withdrew his hand, offering a warm smile. "I hope I didn’t scare you, Miss Morris. I just acted on instinct when I saw you stumble. I hope that's okay."

Gwendolyn replied, "It’s fine. You don't need to apologize."

They had only met three times, but from their first meeting, Marco felt there was something Gwendolyn was keeping to herself. He was determined to get to know her better.

However, Gwendolyn’s reaction seemed involuntary, possibly due to past trauma. Marco’s curiosity flickered briefly before he dismissed it, as Gwendolyn was already straddling the moped, ready to leave. She looked back at Marco and said, "I’ll park the moped myself and head to the hospital, so there's no need to trouble you, Mr. Griffin."

She was not used to sharing the tight space of a moped with someone she barely knew. It made her uneasy, especially since Marco, living his busy, privileged life, surely didn’t need to bother with such a minor accident. Surely, leaving it to the driver would suffice.

"Hold on." With a quick step, Marco easily positioned himself in front of her, gripping the handlebars firmly. His expression was both sincere and determined. "You're hurt, and it's my responsibility. I can't let you head to the hospital alone. I'll ride the moped, and you can sit behind me to guide the way."

Gwendolyn had worked in a large pharmacy for over two years, encountering all sorts of people, but someone like Marco—friendly, approachable, and so conscientious—was a first.

Maybe, as they say, those brought up in loving environments naturally spread kindness.

In that moment, Gwendolyn found herself nodding, stepping off the moped and smiling at him. "Can you ride it?"

Marco swung onto the moped. "I tried it once for fun as a kid. Haven’t forgotten how." He glanced back at Gwendolyn. “Hop on.”

Gwendolyn handed him her helmet, put on her own, and took the seat behind him.

Marco twisted the throttle, and the small moped carried them slowly into the night.

Chandler Hunter and Boone Williams stood on the sidewalk, watching the moped fade into the distance. Chandler rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Wow, your boss knows how to charm, doesn't he?"

Whether it was the streetlights or something else, Boone, normally stoic, showed an unusual warmth as he watched his boss leave, speaking earnestly, "You're wrong. Miss Morris is a good person. She deserves the best."

Chandler sighed, "Well, that just makes things more complicated."

He pulled out his phone, typing a cryptic message to their group chat.

"Guys, someone’s got a challenge ahead."

After a moment, Chandler added, "A big challenge."

Gwendolyn Morris directed Marco Griffin to park the scooter near a subway entrance, where there was a designated area for scooters. After parking, I got off and checked my phone to see it was already 11:15 p.m. Compared to the daytime, there were noticeably fewer people around the subway station. A night breeze blew by, and Marco stepped forward to shield me from the wind.

Standing together, we made quite a contrast—one tall, one shorter; one in dark clothes, the other in light. In the stillness of the night, we stood out quite a bit. Marco wasn't wearing a jacket, just a sleek silver shirt that clung to his muscular frame, highlighting the energy beneath the fabric.

I glanced to the side and said, "I'm not cold. You’re not wearing much—maybe you shouldn't stay in the wind." Marco gave a small, knowing smile, perhaps unsure if I was playing coy or genuinely not understanding his gesture. Another woman might have interpreted his actions differently.

He lowered his gaze, studying my face closely under the dim light. With my hair slicked back and no bangs, my full forehead was visible. This hairstyle requires confidence in one’s looks, and thankfully, my oval face and slightly upturned eyes suited it, lending me an air of aloof elegance.

Perhaps it was one of those "contrast" moments people talk about. He chuckled lightly, his tone playful, "Miss Morris, are you worried about me?"

Startled, I looked up. That was bolder than when he’d offered to steady me earlier. Coming from a man to a woman, it was laden with implications.

"No," I clarified. "I have a boyfriend. I wouldn't be concerned about other men." Marco paused, with a flicker of interest in his eyes, as he stepped back to create some distance.

"Sorry," he said sincerely, without any irritation or embarrassment in response to my words, only regret. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just thought Miss Morris was being kind."

I looked at him, pondering whether he was as harmless as he seemed. But with him standing against the light, I couldn’t make out the subtleties of his expression, let alone any amusement in his eyes. I decided to drop the subject, stating flatly, "Mr. Griffin is kind as well."

At that moment, a black SUV slowly pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. Marco's phone buzzed—Chandler Hunter had sent a WhatsApp message: "Waiting by the curb."

Marco pocketed his phone and nodded toward the parked SUV. "Our ride is here."

Boone Williams was driving, with Chandler Hunter in the passenger seat. I had no choice but to share the back seat with Marco. Boone, though not very chatty, acknowledged me with a nod. "Hello, Miss Morris."

I nodded in return, "Hello."

Chandler turned around, grinning. "Hey there, I'm Chandler, Marco's old buddy."

"Hi," I replied, smiling.

Chandler put on a mock pout. "Come on, I introduced myself—at least give me your name!"

"Her name is Gwendolyn Morris," Marco interjected with a hint of protectiveness I hadn't expected.

Chandler studied me again, the dim car light making it hard to see my features. Keeping his curiosity in check, he asked, "Gwendolyn Morris—nice name. Any special meaning?"

Marco glanced at me, waiting for my response.

"None," I replied softly. It wasn’t really my name, so how could I know its significance?

Marco shifted his gaze back to Chandler, gesturing for Boone to start driving.

Catching the warning look from Marco, Chandler sat up straight, an amused smile playing on his lips. He sent Marco a WhatsApp message, "So, you like the chase."

Marco read the message impassively, turning off his phone screen without a word.

The SUV pulled up at the hospital's entrance. As I moved to get out, Marco stopped me. "Wait a second."

My hand hovered over the car door, puzzled. "What is it?"

He smiled. "I've arranged for a wheelchair. It should be here shortly."

I was surprised and a bit flustered. "A wheelchair isn’t necessary."

Marco smiled again, stepping out as an older man—Mr. Johnson—wheeled one over. With a gentlemanly gesture, he presented the chair to me. "Miss Morris, please."

His voice was gentle, almost caressing, as if speaking to someone dear. The sensation of being treated with such care was strange, and I couldn't help but look at Marco with newfound caution.

Noticing my hesitation, Marco asked softly, "What's wrong?"

His sincere gaze almost made me question my doubts. I eased into the wheelchair and asked Mr. Johnson, "How is my boyfriend?"

He reassured me with a smile. "Everything is set. Once you're done here, you can go see him."

"Thank you," I said.

The doctor confirmed my foot injury wasn't serious, prescribing some topical treatments. He joked with Marco, “This kind of injury could take a while to heal. Perfect opportunity to play the caring boyfriend—make sure she doesn't walk too much.”

Marco blushed slightly, but I interrupted, "He's not my boyfriend—he’s the one who hit me."