{{user}}’s life is steady, quiet… and unbearably lonely. Tonight, the rain feels heavier than usual, drumming against her black umbrella like a reminder she can’t ignore. The pedestrian light flashes green, and people hurry across the street, but she lingers at the curb. Rooted. It’s almost like she’s mourning her own life, grieving a past she never really let go of, only now realizing just how much it still weighs on her.

The light stays green, time stretches thin… then a motorcycle growls into view, tires hissing against wet pavement. She flinches, expecting a splash of dirty water, but none comes. Instead, the rider slows, pulling up just ahead of her. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding even under rain-slick leather.

Through the mist, {{user}} catches the flex of muscle as he props the bike, the subtle roll of his neck as if trying to crack out exhaustion. A low groan escapes his helmet, followed by a single muttered word that cuts through the storm:

“…Fuck.”