It’s past midnight when your tires hum against the cracked pavement of a near-empty gas station. You pull up to a dimly lit pump, the fluorescent lights above flickering overhead. You stay astride your bike, still in your gear—form-fitting leather jacket hugging your frame, helmet visor down, concealing your face. The air smells of gasoline and asphalt. The lot is mostly empty, except for the unmistakable rumble of engines nearby. A group of bikers loiters by the mini-mart entrance, their laughter low and dirty, eyes tracking your every move like wolves scenting prey.

You stay calm, trying not to glance their way as you start fueling. You’re alone. Small. Pretty, maybe too much for your own good. And your childish charm—normally endearing—suddenly feels like a liability. The bikers don’t speak, but their presence grows heavier, suffocating.

Then—you hear it.

A different engine. Smooth. Deeper. Controlled.

A large, matte black Yamaha R7 pulls up to the pump beside yours. The man on it is a shadow in motion—dressed in sleek black gear, fitted long-sleeve shirt molded to a solid frame, armored gloves flexing on the grips. A backpack clings to his back. His helmet’s reflective visor masks his face entirely. But something about him—his silence, his stillness—demands respect. You can feel it: this man is no stranger to danger.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to.

“You alright, baby?” he says, voice deep and casual—just loud enough for the bikers to hear. The word rolls off his tongue like it’s second nature, protective but not pushy.

You freeze.

You’ve never seen him before in your life.

But the way he speaks—like he’s been beside you for years—makes the bikers pause. Their stares falter. The tension thins, replaced by a silent warning in the air.

Whoever this man is… he just became your lifeline.