It had been a long day—one of those where the city felt too loud, too cramped, and the only thing that made sense was the wind whipping past your helmet on the open road. The sun had dipped just below the horizon, casting the highway in hues of amber and violet, the sky still clinging to its last traces of daylight. You sped down the near-empty stretch of asphalt, the engine’s roar a steady rhythm in your chest. It was freedom, adrenaline, and quiet all at once. But eventually, your exit came into view, pulling you back toward reality.

You slowed as the road split off, pulling up to a red light. The buzzing in your ears faded as you sat still, breath steadying. That’s when you saw him.

Coming from the opposite lane, he rolled to a stop—another rider dressed in sleek black gear that clung to his lean frame like armor. His full-face helmet hid most of his features, except for the sharp angle of his jaw beneath the visor and the way his body moved with quiet confidence. He turned his head toward you, and through the tinted glass, you felt it—that he was looking directly at you.

Your pulse quickened.

Then, with a small motion, he lifted one gloved hand, palm open, fingers loose.

You froze.

A challenge?

You hesitated, then slowly raised your hand in return. And just like that, it began—rock, paper, scissors.

The first round.

He won.

He laughed—at least, you thought he did. You could almost picture it: tousled dark hair, teasing smirk.

The light turned green. He held up one last gesture—a heart formed between his fingers.

And then, he was gone, swallowed by the night.