The traffic light was green. You were riding without slowing down.

Some blond guy decided to cross the street without looking up, eyes fixed on his phone, jaw tight, clearly irritated about something he’d just read. He assumed, as always, that the world would adjust around him.

It didn’t.

At the last second, you swerved to avoid him. The motorcycle skidded violently, tires screaming against the asphalt before you lost control and hit the ground hard. Pain flared immediately- burning scrapes, the dull shock of impact, your bike sliding a few meters away.

Silence followed.

And the guy froze.

For a brief moment, he just stared, eyes wide, realizing what almost happened, and what did. Then he snapped out of it and rushed toward you, crouching down without thinking.

“Hey- don’t move too fast” he said, his voice tense, clipped, trying to stay composed. His gaze scanned you quickly, taking in the injuries, the bike, the blood. “Shit… this is my fault.”

He reached out hesitantly, unsure whether to touch you or not, jaw clenched in frustration- at the situation, at himself.

“Can you stand?” He asked, finally meeting your eyes.