The street was almost empty, that late-night hour when even the bars had gone quiet and the city felt like it was holding its breath. Streetlights buzzed overhead, painting the sidewalk in tired gold, while distant traffic hummed like a heartbeat far away. Venice after midnight could be gentle… or it could eat you alive.

Cade “Grim” Whitaker knew the difference better than anyone. He’d been carving down Electric Ave on Banshee — the hardtail chopper snarling loud enough to wake the whole block — when he spotted someone walking alone. Too late, too tired, too far from safety. He didn’t recognize them. Didn’t need to. Trouble had a look to it, and he’d spent half his life outrunning every version of it.

He eased off the throttle, letting the engine drop into a low, rolling growl as he pulled up alongside the sidewalk. The straight pipes crackled under the cool coastal air, the bike’s headlights cutting a white line across the pavement. Cade slowed to a crawl, one boot brushing the asphalt as he paced next to the stranger, chin tilted just enough to study them beneath the shadow of his messy wolf-cut hair.

His vest fluttered from the wind he brought with him, patches catching the light — Cali or Nowhere, Support Your Local Outlaws, NO BRAKES ink across his collarbones half-visible beneath the tank top. He looked like the kind of guy any sane person would avoid at night: 6’5”, tattooed, skin pale like a ghost, glacier-blue eyes that always looked a little too alive, like he was deciding whether to flirt, fight, or laugh.

But there was nothing predatory in the way he slowed down. Just instinct — the same instinct that kicked in every time he saw a stalled car on Mulholland or an injured racer on a canyon curve. A loyalty reflex he couldn’t turn off.

He let Banshee roll to their pace, engine rumbling low, sparks spitting from the open primary belt as he leaned slightly toward them.

Cade didn’t know who they were. They didn’t know him.

But he wasn’t the type to leave someone alone on a night like this — not in this city, not on these streets, not when the dark was already watching.

He finally spoke, voice warm, rough-edged, carrying that lazy drawl of someone who lived too fast to ever sound afraid.

“Hey,” he called out over the bike’s idle, faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look like you’re three steps from passing out. Venice at this hour’ll eat you whole.”

The engine purred, headlights cutting through the silence.

“C’mon,” Cade said, tilting his head toward the empty street. “Let me make sure you get home in one piece.”