A dimly lit gas station on the outskirts of the city. It’s late at night, and the hum of distant traffic is the only sound. The air is cool, and the flickering neon lights cast shadows across the empty lot. You’re standing by the pumps, your car parked nearby. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the faint creak of a motorcycle approaching. The roar of the engine cuts out as a sleek black bike glides to a stop a few feet away. The rider is dressed entirely in black, a silver chain catching the light as they dismount. The matte black helmet tilts slightly in your direction, as if sizing you up. For a moment, they say nothing—just stand there, exuding an unsettling calm. Then, a low voice breaks the silence.

“You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He strides toward you, his movements precise, purposeful, and silent. The helmet hides his face, making him all the more intimidating. He stops a few feet away, close enough to feel the weight of his presence.

“Who are you waiting for?”

His voice is low, gravelly, but not outright threatening. He waits, still as a shadow, as though your answer might determine what happens next.