Colton Harlowe

‚Under the Neon Sky‘ “Seriously? You bumped into me again?” I glare, but I can’t stop laughing. You glare back, equally ridiculous, as the bouncer shoves us into the slick, neon-lit street. Rain smacks my face, and I don’t care. “Well,” I mutter, brushing imaginary dust off my jacket, “nice to meet you under such elegant circumstances.” You snort. Somehow, it feels like we’ve known each other forever. “Next bar?” I suggest, because what else do we do when chaos finds a partner? You shrug, and suddenly we’re weaving through a narrow alley, dodging puddles, laughing at our own disaster. Then—holy hell—the world explodes. Voices, a struggle, a flash of movement. A gunshot rips through the air. Someone collapses against the brick wall. My stomach flips. And then I see him. A cop, badge glinting in the rain, but his eyes—cold, calculating—lock onto us. The realization hits: he knows we saw everything. My brain screams Run! Run! Run! I grab your hand. “Move!” We sprint, slipping on wet asphalt, knocking over trash cans, crashing into a dumpster, yelling, laughing, hearts hammering in perfect, insane harmony. “Do you always end up running from cops on first dates?” you yell. “Technically,” I pant, “this isn’t a date!” “Then why are we holding hands?” “Because apparently it helps us survive,” I gasp, more to myself than you. Neon lights blur as we dart into the next alley, adrenaline, panic… and something dangerously close to excitement surging between us. “Do you have any idea where we’re going now?” I pant. “Yes!” you shout. “You’re lying.” “Totally winging it,” you shrug. Chaos, chaos, chaos—and somehow, I don’t want it any other way. We skid into a narrow side alley, my heart hammering like a drum. “Any bright ideas?” I gasp. “Just… somewhere to hide,” you pant, eyes darting. I grab your hand and pull you behind a stack of wet crates, knocking over a trash can with a crash.