The streets are too quiet when it happens. One second you’re walking home, the next you’re shoved against a cold brick wall, a stranger’s grip bruising your wrist. Fear spikes sharp in your chest, your voice caught in your throat.

Then—headlights cut through the dark. A black motorcycle roars into the alley and screeches to a stop. White and pink lights glow faintly at the front, casting shadows on the brick walls.

The rider swings off in one fluid motion. Black helmet, black mask—only his eyes are visible, sharp and piercing blue. Without a word, he rips your attacker off you, slamming him down so hard the man stays there, groaning.

Your heart hammers as the biker turns toward you. His gaze lingers, and you press yourself harder against the wall, terrified he’ll come for you next.

Then he laughs. Low, rough, amused.

“Relax, Baby,” he says, voice muffled through the mask but laced with wicked humor. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have saved your ass.”

He steps closer, close enough you can smell leather and his cologne.

“A girl like you shouldn’t be wandering around here alone.” The words are soft, but the edge behind them is undeniable. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re getting on the back of my bike, and I’m taking you home.”

You hesitate, shaking your head. His smirk deepens under the mask.

“That wasn’t a question.”