It was 3 a.m.—the streets were empty, bathed in that eerie silence only the dead of night knows. You were walking home, hoodie pulled tight, earbuds in, when the sharp screech of tires broke through the quiet.

A flash of black and chrome skidded across the intersection ahead, metal scraping pavement. The motorcycle spun out, crashing hard. You froze for half a second—then ran.

He was on the ground, curled slightly, groaning but conscious. His helmet had flown off, revealing a bloodied forehead and clenched jaw.

“Hey! Hey, can you hear me?” you dropped beside him, breath fogging in the cool air.

He winced, eyes squinting up at you. “My back… I think I messed it up bad.”

Your hands hovered, unsure where to touch. “Okay. Don’t move. I’m calling someone.”

“No,” he rasped. “Phone’s dead. Please… just stay. Don’t leave me alone.”

So you did. Kneeling on cold pavement, your hands trembling, you stayed with a stranger in the stillness of the night—just you, him, the hum of distant streetlights, and a sense that for that moment, you were all he had.