Ding!


Max's phone buzzed with a FlashMsg from Lucy.


Lucy: Made it inside. Icing my foot now. Can't cook, so I guess it's takeout for me. (crying emoji)


Max: Oh. What are getting?


Lucy: Salad.


Max: What kind?


Lucy: Fruit salad.


Max: Just fruit?


Lucy: ...and salad.


She sent a high-def photo of a generic vegetable salad.


Max: Oh. You're injured. You should eat some meat.


Lucy: Mm-hm.


Max: What kind of meat do you like?


Lucy: ...


Max stared at the screen. He had successfully murdered that conversation. He frowned and pocketed the phone.


Two days. Two women had actively asked for his contact info. The first time someone said "add me," it turned out to be a trap. Now this?


As the adrenaline wore off, Max's paranoia kicked in. The more he thought about it, the more the math didn't add up.


It wasn't that Lucy was acting weird. It was that for twenty-odd years, no girl—especially not a stunner like her—had ever aggressively pursued him.


Max knew where he stood in the food chain. He wasn't ugly, sure, but he wasn't exactly stopping traffic. He wasn't like Shane, who probably had supermodels breaking into his house just to say hello. And money? Okay, he had some now, but it was all invisible. No fancy car, no designer watch, no penthouse. To the naked eye, he was just another broke wage-slave.


So, he bumps into a girl, and she falls in love instantly?


Maybe that happened in cheesy rom-coms. In Max's life? The probability was slightly lower than zero.


Lost in thought, Max arrived at his studio apartment. He reached for his keys, then froze.


His eyes darted to the bottom of the doorframe. The tiny, transparent sliver of plastic he'd wedged into the crack before leaving was gone.


Max kept his face blank. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind him.


A quick scan of the floor revealed the plastic shim lying near his foot. It had fallen inside. Someone had opened the door.


His studio wasn't big. He checked the closet, the bathroom, under the bed. No one was there. Once he was clear, he pulled out his phone.


A cold smirk curled on his lips.




March 26. Weather: Sunny.


Lucy: My bestie wants to go clubbing tonight. I've never been to this place and I'm kinda nervous, but I can't say no. Would you come with me? (puppy eyes emoji)


Max stared at the message.


So, he thought. This is how they get me out of the house.


He could practically hear the gears of fate grinding forward.


Max: Sure. Time and place?


Lucy: 7 PM. The Gravity Bar.


Max paused. The Gravity Bar? Wait. Did she mean the Zero-G Club? He'd seen that name on a dossier somewhere.


Max: No problem. See you there.


He set the phone down and exhaled slowly.


Fate's Night, huh?




6:30 PM.


Click. Click.


Max stepped out of his apartment at the exact moment his neighbor, Hazel, emerged from hers. She was wearing a long trench coat, looking like she was heading out on a mission.


"Uh... Ms. Lane? Going out?"


"Mm." Hazel gave him a cursory glance and a nod, barely breaking stride.


"Ms. Lane," Max called out. "You might want to grab an umbrella. I have a feeling it's going to rain tonight."


Hazel stopped. She looked at the umbrella in Max's hand, then glanced up at the sky.


It was perfectly clear. Not a cloud in sight.


She rolled her eyes at him. "Thanks, but no thanks."


Without another word, she hurried down the stairs.


Max watched her retreat, confused.


Weird, he thought. She leaves at this time every day and doesn't come back until late... is she really working overtime? Why does a high-powered elite lawyer look so broke?


......


At 6:55 PM, Max was already waiting outside the "Zero-G Club," five minutes early.


The crowd flowing in and out was a parade of the young, hot, and scantily clad. Standing there in a tracksuit, clutching a dorky umbrella, Max stuck out like a sore thumb.


"Max!"


Max turned to see Lucy approaching. She'd pulled out all the stops: wavy hair, a tight tee under a cropped jacket, and a skirt paired with sheer black tights.


She walked the line between innocent and seductive perfectly. A guy with less experience—or maybe the "old" Max—would have lost his mind right then and there.


But Max just watched her with a calm, almost detached appreciation.


Tonight was Judgment Night. He had a tiger in his heart, as the poet said, but right now, he had to stop and smell the roses.


"Max, let me introduce you," Lucy chirped. "This is my bestie, Ivy. Ivy, this is Max."


"Ivy" was in her mid-twenties, average-looking with way too much makeup—the classic "wingwoman" strategy to make Lucy look even more angelic by comparison.


"So, this is the hero you told me about? The 'Max' who swooped in to save the day?" Ivy looked Max up and down, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "Not bad. You've got good taste, Lucy."


"Ivy! Shut up!" Lucy gave her a playful shove, feigning embarrassment. "Don't mind her, Max. She loves to joke around."


"It's fine," Max smiled. "Shall we go in? To be honest, it's my first time here."


Lucy squinted at him, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. His reaction was... off.


Usually, when a guy gets teased like that, he either stammers like an idiot or gets a creepy look of satisfaction. Why was this guy so indifferent? Was he just too nervous to process it?


"Let's wait a sec," Ivy checked her watch. "My boyfriend should be here any minute."


Right on cue, her phone rang.


"Hello? What!?" Ivy screamed into the receiver. "Harry was in a crash? Where? Is it bad? City General? Okay, I'm coming!"


She hung up, looking suitably frantic. "I'm so sorry, you guys. My boyfriend got into an accident on the way here. I have to go."


"Oh my god," Lucy gasped, looking concerned. "Is it serious? Do you want me to come with you?"


"No, no, I heard it's just minor injuries. I can handle it! You two go have fun."


Ivy turned her gaze on Max, locking eyes with him. "I'm leaving our girl Lucy in your hands. You make sure she gets home safe, got it?"


Max looked at Ivy, then at Lucy. Suddenly, he grinned.


"Don't worry. leave it to me."


Any other day, even knowing this was a massive setup, Max would have happily played the fool just to spend time with a pretty girl.


But tonight...


He escorted a "shy" Lucy into the club, finding a private two-person booth near the window. It was a prime spot—private enough to talk, but with a front-row view of the writhing mass of humanity on the dance floor.


Under the strobe lights and heavy metal thunder, the crowd was busy burning through their youth and hormones.


"What can I get for you?" a waiter asked, dropping a menu on the table.


"It's my first time," Lucy murmured, looking down. "Max, you order. But I can't really hold my liquor... maybe just some juice."


"Two orange juices then. Thanks."


Lucy blinked. "......"


The waiter gave them a weird look, scanning Max's tracksuit and Lucy's club wear, but forced a smile. "Coming right up."


"You don't drink, Max?" Lucy asked, sounding unsure.


"Nope. Bars are risky places," Max said with a straight face. "When you're out in the wild, you gotta protect yourself."


"Uh..."


Du~ dudu~


Suddenly, the DJ cut the track. An electric guitar shredded through the silence, and the room went hushed.


Spotlights snapped onto the stage, illuminating a slender figure.


She was wearing a leather jacket and a short skirt, an electric guitar slung across her back.


Woom~~


The music exploded.


"Do you recall the days of old?


You were the one I hoped to hold.


But now you're gone, you're far away,


Your smile haunts me every day.


I wonder if you're lonely too,


Walking the path meant just for you.


I finally see the vows were lies,


Absurdity in a disguise.


The ice has sealed the world in gray,


But my love for you won't fade away.


Remember the promise you made back then..."


It was a lyrical rock ballad, sung in a slightly husky, soulful voice. Couples on the floor began to sway together.


Max stared at the woman on stage, stunned. It was Hazel.


Splash.


Outside the window, the sky opened up. A torrential downpour hammered against the glass.


Suddenly, everything clicked. It rushed through Max's brain like a download completing.


A Tragic Life. The Hustle. Justice Delayed. The Chronicle.


Multiple threads of destiny were converging right here, right now.


That person had arrived right on schedule, like an angel to light up his lowest point.


Love comes like a storm—literally. The second day they met, it rained just like this.


He looked across the table at Lucy, his expression complicated.


"Sorry to ask," Max said, leaning forward, "but... what's your blood type?"