Everybody was jealous. Mourice was showing off his new racing motorcycle, a birthday present from his father. It was black, with neon green stripes streaking down the sides like lightning on speed. Everyone wanted to try it, but Mourice wouldn't give the key to anyone.
"You can sit on it, but I ain't giving the key to anyone," Mourice laughed.
A wise decision, really—these 14 to 16-year-old cadets were hot-blooded and reckless. Letting them ride his precious new bike would be asking for disaster.
The motorcycle had arrived earlier that day, delivered by truck under the name Mourice Lahm. Brand new, still wrapped, straight from the factory. Mourice had peeled off the layers of protection himself, revealing its flawless, unblemished body.
And since it came from his father—the chief commander of the Intergalactic Law Enforcement—none of the instructors objected. They just set a single rule: Mourice could only ride it on weekends.
Jacques clenched his fist inside his pants pocket, lips pressed together as the sound of the revving engine cut through the chatter. That sound—it wasn't like the dull hum of the standard-issue police bikes. It roared. It bragged.
It was also his dream come true.
Don't even talk about racing bikes—even an old, slow motorcycle with a wheezing engine looked sexy in Jacques' eyes. But this? This was something else. This was a speed machine carved from fantasy.
Mourice pushed everyone back and swung onto the bike. The motorcycle kicked up a gentle spray of dust as it turned with ease and elegance. It had sharp edges and a rebellious gleam, like a predator baring its fangs at a tamed world.
"Tch…" Jacques sucked in a breath through his teeth.
"Pretty sick, huh?" Harvey muttered beside him. He looked just as bitter.
A few years ago, cadets weren't even allowed to keep motorcycles at the dorm. The policy had been strict—they caused too many problems, made cadets harder to manage. But Mourice? Mourice was special.
"You can do anything you want when your dad's the chief commander," Harvey said with a wry smile.
Of course. Of course Mourice got a damn brand-new racing motorcycle. Though Jacques noted something odd—the engine didn't sound like one that could break 120 km/h. It sounded… soft. More like a regular city bike. But who cared? The body alone was enough to stir envy.
Mourice stepped off and propped the motorcycle up, flicking his hair back like he was in a commercial. Then, casually, he looked up—and for a brief second, their eyes met.
"Yo, alien-boy!" Mourice called out. "Wanna try?"
Jacques scoffed. "Really? You won't let anyone touch the keys. What makes me special?"
Mourice grinned like the devil. "Of course you're special, Jacques. We're buddies, aren't we?"
Sure, they used to be. But Jacques no longer respected him. There was something Mourice had done—something Jacques kept to himself—that had shattered it. Mourice was a hypocrite, and Jacques couldn't stand that.
"Sorry," Jacques said, turning away. "I'm not calling anyone who sold their true self for luxury and privileges."
He brushed past Mourice, their shoulders bumping. Jacques didn't even glance at the motorcycle, resisting the bitter urge to look back.
He was jealous. Furious, even. Not just because Mourice got whatever he wanted—but because Jacques had made a promise to his mother. A promise that used to feel like motivation now felt like a chain around his soul.
At first, it gave him purpose.
Now, it held him back.
But before he got far, Mourice called after him.
"Oh, I forgot—you're just a coward pretending to be cool. Deep down, you're a wimp lying to yourself!"
Jacques flinched.
Because Mourice wasn't wrong.
I want it so bad.The feeling of breaking the world beneath my wheels. The wind in my face. The power of unbound fate in my hands.
But I'm not a coward. I made a promise. This isn't a prison—it's responsibility. This is what makes a man: he keeps his promise, no matter how hard it gets. It's about self-control.
No, Jacques thought as he walked away. I'm not a coward. I'm a man who keeps his word.
He walked. Past Mourice. Past the crowd. Past the sparkle of hidden desire and the whisper of an unknown dream.
But the thought of riding a motorcycle never left his mind, even when he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Eventually, he opened his laptop and typed:"Building Your First Custom Motorcycle: From Scratch."
He clicked the first video without thinking.
And as it played, his eyes began to shine in a way they hadn't for a very long time.
He smiled.
Because it felt familiar.
It felt like himself.
Should I create one from scratch?
But where? I don't have a workshop. It's impossible to build one in my dorm—it's only 3 by 4 meters… maybe 4 by 4 if you count the bathroom. And it's on the third floor. No way I could pull that off up here. Should I rent a space? Get to know a mechanic and borrow their garage?
No. Not possible.
He closed his laptop.
But the thought didn't go away.
Maybe, he thought, I don't need to build it from scratch. What if I steal it?
One day, after class ended, he saw Mourice walking, his motorcycle key dangling from the back pocket of his pants.
Jacques quickened his pace, and as he passed Mourice—
Bump!
"Hey!" Mourice frowned at the sudden bump, but once he realized it was Jacques, he smirked. "Just admit you're jealous, coward!"
It wasn't a hate bump.
Jacques sped up his steps, glanced down at the motorcycle key now in his hand, and smirked. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath.
Back in his dorm, Jacques opened his stash—a collection of unpolished keys he'd been making in secret. He pulled one out and began carving it with a pen-shaped hand drill, copying Mourice's motorcycle key with precise attention.
Within an hour, it was done. A perfect replica.
The next day, Mourice looked pale and downcast—like someone who'd caught a bug. Looked like someone who'd just realized the key to his precious toy was gone.
When he left his dorm, Jacques made his move. Using the duplicate key he had just created, he entered Mourice's room. He moved quietly, making sure no one saw him and that his body language didn't raise suspicion.
Once inside, he slipped the original motorcycle key back into the pants hanging behind the door. Then he locked the room and slipped out.
At first, it had just been a hobby—something to do out of boredom. He'd visit the junkyard, collect scrap metal, melt it down, and mold it into blank keys. He bought a pen drill to help carve them. Not very sturdy, sure, but they didn't need to be. It's not like he planned to use them often.
Later that night, when everyone was asleep, Jacques sneaked into the parking lot where Mourice had parked his motorbike. It was chained and locked, but that was no challenge for Jacques. Lock picking was easy—no lock was too tough to break. Fortunately for him, it wasn't a rare or complicated lock; it was just a regular one. Thanks to a simple wire, he was able to crack it open.
Now with the motorcycle in his hands, he sat on it and plugged in the handmade replica key he had just carved. It slid in smoothly, just like the real thing. He twisted it, and the engine roared to life.
The hum of the engine made Jacques's heart race, as if it was beating in sync with the machine. The pulse of the motor and his own pulse melted into one.
He felt something inside him stir—like something that had been asleep for a very long time finally waking up.
The plan was simple: just use it to drive to Sulu's place.
But as he placed his hand on the throttle...
Jacques shook his head.
An image of his mother, teaching him to be a good person, flashed through his mind. He remembered how she had always told him not to disappoint her. Stealing wasn't right.
So, Jacques returned the motorcycle to its place, reattached the chain and lock,
...and left it.