Hi, Rochatter

To encourage more creators, every week we select the best creator of the week and the best entry. We hope to see your work next week!

This week's creator is @𝘚𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪🐻

Danyl Rutherford

Danyl was used to nights like these—fast, dark, and silent. His black sports bike cut through the emptiness like a shadow with a vendetta. No music. No destination. Just speed. Just escape.

Then the damn car came.

Jerking like the driver had no sense of rhythm. No control. He didn't need to look twice. He knew the type. Sloppy. Entitled. Loud.

And then it happened—the horn. Shrill. Repeated. Demanding he move.

Danyl slowed down—not out of kindness, but defiance. He stayed right in front of the car, every part of him soaking in the irritation. Let the brat behind the wheel squirm. Let them shout.

The car window rolled down, your voice slurred, angry, and drunk on something that clearly wasn’t just alcohol.

Until—

CRASH.

The sickening sound of steel kissing concrete. The jolt of impact. The car swerved and smashed into the divider with a scream of metal and broken pride. Danyl bike skidded to a controlled stop a few meters ahead, engine still growling.

His fingers twitched on the handlebar. He sat still, jaw clenched

But his eyes had already glanced back.

He pulled up beside the wreck, he saw you—half-slumped against the cracked window, blood trickling at your temple, glass sparkling like sad confetti across your chest.

Still conscious. Still alive.

He killed the engine. Tore off his helmet.

And glared.

His voice was low. Cold. Almost bored. But beneath it was something electric—annoyance that had teeth. Not at the crash. Not even at the sight of your blood. But at himself for stopping.

You were groaning, barely able to focus, smelling like alcohol and bad decisions.

His eyes drifted lower—to the way your fingers trembled as you tried to move, your lips dry and smeared with red, your breaths shallow and panicked. You looked... afraid. Vulnerable. Small.

Disgust twisted in his gut, and he hate the strange, unwelcome flicker of concern blooming inside his chest.

Danyl opened the crumpled door with a grunt and leaned down, his voice as sharp as broken glass. He lifted you, careful despite his gritted teeth. Your blood smeared against his jacket. Your weight sagged into him. And with every step he took toward his bike, he hated himself more.

He sat you down sideways on the bike’s back seat, adjusting your position like muscle memory.

He kicked the engine to life. The roar of the motor swallowed his guilt. At least for a second.

Other outstanding works of the week

Val

Excited fans chanted in the crowd.

The sight of bright, swaying, multi-coloured lightsticks moving in the bustling, squealing crowd filled the large stadium.

The stage was beautifully set out; the choreography practised to perfection.

Val's pink hair shone as the spotlight landed on him, piercings catching in the bright light.

He didn't stutter his lyrics; he delivered them with precise accuracy. His angelic voice rushed through the crowd as he sang into his headset microphone.

He performed his choreography, his movements graceful, fluid, and smooth; even so, he still flashed an adorable smile at the crowd.

Geo was the cold, mature member; Eli

Always there with a puzzled question, an enthusiastic, cute response, and an adoration for all things.

It was the way things were meant to be; it was what the fans wanted.

Adoring fans screeched, waving their arms in the night air.

He gave them what they wanted: a cutesy expression, a meek, bashful wave.

Val grimaced inwardly; yet despite his internal arrogance, he kept his lips curled into an innocent smile.

"Idiots, you're not even worth my attention."

Val internally mocked, a smug tone laced onto his inner monologue.

The rest of the night went by in a blur of music.

Val mused internally, walking through the silent night streets, carrying a sour mood with him.

After a very, very long day of catering to those stupid fans, Val was fed up with everything.

He could feel his carefully curated persona slipping; his bones were aching, his voice hoarse, and his head throbbing from the tone-deaf fans screaming.

One more incident and Val was going to snap.

But it was all right...

Val kept telling himself it was all right.

He'd take a nice walk home; he'd stop by the vending machine he always frequented; and he'd get his favourite green tea.

The night walk was... somewhat soothing.

Val's feet didn't have the fake spring in his step he always has whilst on stage; he was too drained and bothered to even attempt to keep his persona on.

Val stopped dragging his feet when the bright neon lights of the familiar vending machine came into view, a pang of excitement filling him.

His pace quickened; the one thing he wanted was his favourite drink and finally—after a long day, he'd get it!!

Suddenly, Val stopped in his tracks.

Val didn't hold back his words this time; he spoke exactly what he was thinking.

After this shitty day—this was happening!?!??!

The barely contained rage in Val blew up—

Here you were—at Val's vending machine, holding the last green tea!

Val said, his voice bratty, impudent, demanding and just... outright rude.

He stepped closer, his pink eyes meeting yours with a cocksure arrogance that you'd abide.

He extended a hand out, gesturing for you to give him the drink.

Alex

You weren’t born into love.

You were born into a mistake. A whispered affair swept under silk sheets and denied with polished lies. Your father swore you weren’t his.

And yet — there you were.

An unwanted secret breathing beneath their roof.

They never said your name like it belonged to you. They said it. That thing. That accident.

And you learned.

You learned how to disappear inside a house you couldn’t leave. How to force your hands to stop shaking when the belt came down. How to smile when the neighbors smiled at you.

You learned straight As didn’t earn love — just bought you a little less hate. And even when you cracked from the pressure, you still weren’t enough.

The golden child with broken ribs under a starched uniform.

So when A random guy shoved you into a van When the sack covered your face When your wrists were zip-tied like you were some priceless hostage

You didn’t scream. Didn’t kick.

Because somewhere in the pit of your stomach… This didn’t feel that different.

At least he looked at you like you existed.

Now

He’s standing by the marble countertop, peeling an apple like it’s just another Tuesday. Phone on speaker. Your parents’ number flashing on the screen.

Ring. Ring.

Click.

A sharp voice. No warmth. Alex leans casually on the counter, voice even.

Silence.

Then—

…And?

His brow twitches.

Another breath of silence.

Then a soft laugh. Cold.

Keep it. Saves me the trouble

Click.

Call dead.

The apple slips from his hand, rolling off the counter with a hollow sound.

Behind him

You sit on the couch, wrists tied, eyes down.

But your shoulders…

They start to shake.

Quiet. Barely there.

And then —

A sharp sound. A breath.

The sound of someone breaking in a room that’s dead silent.

Alex turns.

You’re crying.

And not the kind of crying he’s used to — not the hysterics, not the begging. But that awful, silent kind. The kind where you bite your lip so hard it bleed Where your shoulders hunch forward like you’re trying to curl into nothing.

And something — Something like guilt, raw and sharp — twists in his chest.

Shit.

He swallows, knife forgotten on the counter. He crosses the floor before he can think twice.

His voice catches.

What was he supposed to say?

They didn’t mean it? It’s fine?

No. Nothing was fine. It never had been.

So he does the one thing no one’s ever done for you.

He kneels in front of you.

Gently — so gently it feels wrong coming from hands like his — He takes your tied wrists in his hands and slowly undoes the zip-ties.

Not a word. Not a smirk.

Just quiet. And careful.

You glance up, eyes rimmed red. And for a split second —

You see it.

The way his expression isn’t cruel. Isn’t mocking. Isn’t pitiful.

It’s… angry. But not at you.

At them.

At himself.

At this whole screwed-up mess.

But for the first time…

Someone isn’t looking at you like a mistake.