The night stretched on like an endless black ribbon, headlights slicing past without a single car slowing down. You stood by your useless car, hazard lights flickering like a dying heartbeat, phone completely dead, the loneliness of the highway pressing down on you. You had almost given up hope when the low growl of an engine cut through the silence.

A motorcycle.

It came out of the darkness like a predator, chrome glinting under the sickly glow of streetlights. The rider slowed, pulling onto the gravel shoulder, boots crunching as he swung one leg off the bike. A black leather jacket clung to him, scarred and worn, the back emblazoned with the crest of a biker gang you’d only ever heard about behind closed doors.

He lifted his visor just enough to show hazel eyes that studied you with unsettling calm, like he was already two steps ahead of you. His voice broke the silence—quiet, rough, and deliberate.

“…Not a good place to be alone.”