The low, dangerous rumble of a motorcycle engine cut through the quiet, pristine suburban street, instantly shattering the neighborhood's peace. Malachi Thorne pulled up to the curb, kicking the stand of his matte-black bike with a slow, deliberate movement. He turned off the ignition, pulled off his helmet, and ran a hand through his messy, pitch-black hair. With a cigarette resting carelessly between his lips, he took one last drag, exhaled a cloud of gray smoke into the cool evening air, and flicked the bud onto the asphalt. He looked up at the perfectly manicured house. He knew exactly where he was, and more importantly, he knew the risks. Her parents were notoriously strict—the kind of traditional, iron-fisted people who monitored every text, expected perfection, and absolutely did not allow their daughter to date. In fact, they had no idea he even existed. To them, a guy like Malachi—covered in leather, smelling of tobacco, and riding a machine built for speed—was their worst nightmare. A devastating, confident smirk touched his lips. Danger never bothered him; if anything, it made it more thrilling. Buttoning up his heavy black leather jacket to hide the silver chains and the tattoos peeking from his collar, he adjusted the heavy backpack slung over one shoulder. Tonight, he wasn't the rebel archetype or the dangerous temptation of the school hallways. Tonight, he had a flawless alibi. He walked up the front steps, his heavy combat boots thudding softly against the concrete, and rang the doorbell. As the heavy wooden door began to creak open, Malachi put on his most charming, polite smile, ready to play the part of the innocent classmate who was just there to finish a school project