The collision wasn’t immediate agony—it was like the world had abruptly tilted sharply to the right, disorienting me utterly.
I was cruising down Cedar Street, the crisp autumn air rare and refreshing, when suddenly the thunderous, ferocious growl of a twin-turbo V8 shattered the calm. Before I could react, a brutal force slammed into the rear wheel of my bicycle.
I was airborne. For a fleeting instant, the city skyline spun dizzyingly, and then gravity yanked me back, slamming me hard onto the unforgiving asphalt. My shoulder absorbed the impact, my hip followed, and I tumbled, scraping raw skin from my palms before coming to a painful stop in the gutter.
A deathly silence hung, broken only by the relentless ringing in my ears.
My name is Lucia. I’m twenty-four and a junior engineer at Aether Dynamics. To the world, I might look like a college student—messy bun, oversized hoodie, and scuffed sneakers—but today, I was anything but ordinary.
Pushing myself up despite every protesting muscle, my eyes locked on the twisted wreckage sprawled across the intersection—my bike.
The frame, once sleek matte-grey, was grotesquely snapped in two; the rear wheel grotesquely tacoed. And there, parked with barely a scratch on its neon green body, was a McLaren 720S.
The driver’s door swung open in a theatrical butterfly motion. Out stepped a man who embodied ‘new money’ cliché: slicked-back hair, a suit stretched too tight, and sunglasses that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He didn’t rush to check on me or ask if I was alive. Instead, he strode directly to his car’s front bumper, crouching to inspect it.
“Are you kidding me?” he barked. “A scratch! You scratched my carbon splitter!”
He turned, his gaze icy and full of accusation. I was still bleeding and sitting in the gutter, trying to steady my breath.
“Are you blind?” he snapped, stalking toward me. “You cut me off!”
“I… I was in the bike lane,” I gasped, wind knocked out of me.
“You were in my way!” he spat. “Do you know how much this car costs? Do you know who I am?”
I looked up at him, unafraid. The name didn’t matter—he was just another entitled bully with a wallet to match.
From his jacket pocket, he extracted a thick money clip. Peeling off five hundred-dollar bills, he balled them up and hurled them at my chest. The crumpled cash splattered into the dirty gutter water.
“Here,” he sneered. “Five hundred dollars. Buy a new bike, buy two. Now get out of my sight before I sue you for paint damage.”
Adjusting his cuffs, he turned to slip back into his spotless supercar.
I stared down at the soaked bills floating in the grimy gutter, then back at the mangled remains of my bike. I stood—not just up, but defiant. I wiped blood from my hand on my jeans, dusted grit from my shoulder, and called out softly but sharply:
‘Wait.’
His bored expression faltered.
“What? Want more? Greedy little—”
“Pick it up,” I said, pointing to his money.
“Excuse me?”
“Pick up your money,” I repeated firmly. “Keep it. You’re going to need it.”
“Need it for what?” he laughed, incredulous.
I stepped past him and bent down to lift the bike’s top tube. It felt impossibly light in my hands.
“You’ll need it,” I said steadily, “to cover the deductible. Because you just destroyed the only Hyper-Titanium Lattice Prototype in existence.”
—
The man—let’s call him Derek Vaughn—stared. Then erupted into bitter laughter.
“Hyper-Titanium what?” he scoffed. “Please, look at that thing. Gray, ugly, no logo. Looks like junkyard scrap.”
“It’s intentional,” I said calmly. “Industrial camouflage. We conceal the material engineering.”
“We?”
“My team.”
A crowd gathered, phones raised like weapons, distant sirens crescendoed.
Derek leaned in, voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “Cut the sci-fi nonsense. Take the cash, leave. Or I’ll make sure you’re blacklisted in this city. Derek Vaughn, real estate kingpin, remember the name. I own this block.”
“Derek Vaughn,” I echoed, unbothered. “Real estate developer. I read your last project’s engineering report—shear issues on the 14th floor. Cutting corners, yes?”
His face whitened.
“Who are you?”
“An engineer.”
A police cruiser arrived, two officers stepping out. The elder with a notepad commanded,
“Alright, break it up. What happened?”
“Cyclist swerved into me!” Derek blurted, flashing a practiced smile. “Tried to brake, but—”
“He hit me from behind, speeding wildly,” I interjected, gesturing at the long, black skid marks.
“Just an accident,” Derek interrupted, waving away suspicion. “Compensated her already. She’s extorting.”
The officer examined the wet, crumpled bills in the gutter, then Derek. Neither looked impressed.
“Is this your bike, ma’am?”
“Yes. Was.”
“Estimated value?”
I inhaled deeply.
“Material alone, $1.2 million.”
The officer froze. Derek choked. Silence cloaked the street.
“Did you say million?”
“One point two, excluding R&D, patent filings, or proprietary calibrations.” I met Derek’s wide eyes. “Intellectual property losses tip it toward ten million.”
“You’re insane,” Derek hissed. “A bike—without gears!”
“It’s magnetic drive train. Frictionless,” I explained. “Frame’s graphene-infused titanium alloy, printed in a vacuum chamber. Designed for Mars mobility tests.”
“Mars?” Derek shouted, voice rising. “Arrest her! False report!”
“I can prove it.”
My cracked phone screen came to life. I dialed a number.
“Mr. Sloan?”
“Lucia? Where are you? Test was due ten minutes ago—investors are anxious.”
“Corner of Cedar and Pine,” I replied. “Accident.”
“Any injuries?”
“Bruised. But the Chimera… it’s destroyed.”
A chilling silence.
“Destroyed?”
“Totaled by a rear impact, high velocity.”
“Don’t move. Security and legal are en route. No one touches the debris.”
—
“I called my boss,” I said. “Edward Sloan, CEO of Aether Dynamics.”
Derek’s confidence flickered at the mention. Everyone knew Sloan—a titan whose drones served the military and had the President on speed dial.
“You work for Sloan? Dressed like that?”
“I’m a field tester. Aerodynamics over optics.”
Minutes later, a convoy of sleek black SUVs screeched to a halt, sealing off the intersection. Men in suits surrounded the shattered bike, resembling a clandestine security detail.
Then, a silver Rolls Royce purred to a stop. Edward Sloan stepped out—silver-haired and commanding, his suit far pricier than Derek’s supercar.
He approached me, concern etched in his gaze.
“Lucia,” he said softly. “Medic!”
A medic rushed over, tending my bleeding hands.
Sloan surveyed the wreckage with sighs thick with loss.
“Three years of work,” he murmured.
Turning to Derek—no longer the cocky developer but a boy caught breaking a priceless vase—Sloan’s voice cut through cold as ice.
“This woman is the Lead Structural Engineer on the Mars Mobility Project and designed that frame you just crushed.”
He gestured to the skid marks.
“You were speeding.”
Derek faltered. “Maybe a little. But it’s just metal. How much could a bike cost? Five, ten grand?”
Sloan laughed—but it was bitter, harsh.
“Simon,” he instructed one of his legal team, “show him the invoice.”
Simon produced a document detailing raw titanium costs, graphene sheets, and energy expenses from particle accelerators.
Derek’s hands trembled as he read: four million dollars in materials.
“Add the NASA contract penalties missed due to this,” Sloan said. “Fifty million in losses. That’s what you owe.”
The bill fluttered into the gutter beside Derek’s soggy cash.
“Insurance won’t cover this,” Sloan added calmly. “Your policy caps at two million. The rest? Out of your pocket, Derek Vaughn.”
—
Derek gazed at his McLaren—the crown jewel of his identity—now a mere toy compared to the astronomical debt looming.
“I don’t have fifty million liquid,” he whispered.
“I know,” Sloan replied, stepping forward. “I know about your precarious leverage, your overextended projects, assets mortgaged beyond limits.”
Turning to me: “He threw money at you?”
“Yes,” I said, “like it was trash.”
Sloan nodded sharply.
“Simon,” he instructed, “place liens on all Vaughn’s assets—car, apartment, developments. Freeze them pending litigation for gross negligence and destruction of classified government property.”
“Classified?” Derek protested. “It’s just a bike on the street!”
“It’s a test vehicle for the Department of Defense,” Sloan replied smoothly, the lie laced with steel. “You destroyed a national asset.”
The officer shrugged. “Civil matter now, sir. Reckless driving ticket is all.”
Sloan patted my shoulder. “Come—hospital first.”
“What about the bike?”
“The team recovers the debris. The shear stress data is invaluable, even in failure.”
As I moved toward the Rolls, Derek lunged, gripping my uninjured arm.
“Wait! Please! I’ll pay—hospital, personally. Don’t ruin me!”
I stopped, cool and steady.
“Let go.”
He complied, the arrogance gone, replaced by raw fear.
“You told me to pick up the money.”
“Yes.”
“You should. You’ll need every cent—for bus fare.”
I stepped into the Rolls Royce. Watching from the rear window, I saw Derek Vaughn crouched in the gutter, fishing out soggy bills while his McLaren was hooked to a tow truck.
—
The lawsuit was swift. Derek settled, forced to unload his flagship development to Aether Realty at a fire-sale price. He lost his car, his penthouse—his empire unraveled.
I healed. Scars marked the skin, but my spirit remained unbroken.
Three months later, in the lab, Sloan and I stood before the gleaming vacuum chamber where 3D printing arms danced their final strokes.
The hiss of the chamber’s opening revealed the Chimera Mark II—sleek, silver, vibrant with unseen energy, as if poised to leap forward.
“We reinforced the rear triangle and integrated collision sensors,” I explained, fingers gliding across the frame.
“Perfect,” Sloan nodded. “NASA’s visit is Tuesday.”
“Ready,” I smiled.
“Going for a test ride?”
“Not on Cedar Street,” I laughed. “Closed track only.”
Sloan handed me a helmet.
“By the way,” he grinned, “we received a letter from Derek.”
“Oh?”
“He’s asking for a job in project management. He’s desperate.”
“What’d you say?”
“I offered the janitorial department. We need someone who knows gutters.”
I smiled, the memory of that gutter scene fresh.
Helmet on, I mounted the fifty-million-dollar marvel. The magnetic drive engaged—silent, relentless, and powerful.
I soared down the track, faster and freer—leaving behind the wreckage and the man who caused it in the dust.