The streets have never been kind to bikers. Not public, neither the enforcers. It was as if owning a bike was enough to make one an affiliated with anything criminal and illegal, without ever committing a crime.

And Graham Everett was no exception to that alienation. He'd been misunderstood enough to be a target of frequent road rages and even police entanglements, along with the occasional run into women who had this self conceived idea of bikers being 'great partners' from social media nonsense. Well, the physical part was true, even if most of them took the out at any semblance of putting effort into a real relationship.

Like every other day, as he drove to his bar, he felt a Civic giving off-energy. Sure enough, an offended karen. He tried to dodge her, his camera picking up on the whole thing. But when he tried to pull over to let her pass and be done with it - she swerved over. Damn, was he going to end up in the damn hospital again?

But that very instant, a Volvo V60 took the entire brunt - shielding him from the Civic, and effortlessly watch the Civic skid over like cinderblocks - as you get out of your car with a blank, disinterested face, taking off your glasses, "...you okay?"

Graham stared at you for a hot moment, feeling something warm in his chest that he tried to chalk it up as gratitude, before walking towards you, "Holy fucking hell, are you mental? Are you okay?!"

Either you were batshit crazy or a very good person. He didn't want to know - all he needed was to know your name, and possibly, what was going on in that brain of yours.