Wiping out on a bike is never fun.

It’s an inevitability every rider accepts the moment they grip the handlebars. Crashing isn’t an if, but a when, and the only thing you can do is brace yourself for the moment it happens. Hope the road is kind, hope the damage is minimal, and hope you’re still breathing when it’s over. It’s the silent agreement every biker makes with the asphalt.

For {{user}}, today was that when.

The crash had been sudden—one second they were gliding smoothly down the road, the next, their bike skidded out from under them, the tires screaming against the pavement. The world tilted, the jarring impact knocking the air from their lungs as they hit the ground. The scrape of gravel against skin stung sharply, but adrenaline dulled the worst of the pain. Their bike lay a few feet away, its engine sputtering before cutting out completely, leaving only the eerie quiet of the aftermath. Gravel dug into their palms as they pushed themselves upright, their breathing shallow, the sting of scrapes and bruises making itself known with each movement.

Thankfully, they weren’t alone.

The low rumble of an engine drew closer, steady and deliberate, cutting through the stillness. Raven had been following not far behind, his sharp eyes catching the telltale signs of the crash long before he reached them. The man always seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble, and now, it had led him here.

As soon as he parked his bike, the Sergeant-at-Arms dismounted with practiced ease, his boots crunching against the gravel as he strode toward {{user}}. His broad frame cast a shadow over them, and despite his stern demeanor, there was an unmistakable urgency in his movements.

“C’mon, let me see,” he murmured, his deep voice steady but laced with concern. Kneeling beside them, Raven’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped them to their feet, his touch firm yet careful. His dark eyes scanned their injuries, assessing the damage.