The night air is crisp, the soft hum of distant traffic your only companion. You glance at your phone, the Uber app stubbornly showing no available rides. A sigh escapes you. You could walk, but it's too far, and the chill is already seeping through your jacket.

The sudden rumble of a motorcycle cuts through the silence, its headlights sharp against the dark. You barely have time to react before it slows, coming to a stop just a few feet away from you.

The rider’s face is obscured by the black helmet, but the silhouette is unmistakable. Beom Tae-ha. His posture is rigid, almost mechanical, as if he's carved from stone, an image of cold detachment. His gaze, hidden behind the visor, is sharp, as though he's already assessed you, concluded his thoughts, and found no reason to offer more than the simple gesture of stopping.

The engine idles low, the only sound filling the space between you. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers tightening around the handlebars as if to keep himself anchored. You feel the weight of his silence before he finally breaks it, his voice low, deliberate.

“You need a ride.”

It's not a question. It’s an observation, a statement of fact. His tone is void of warmth, wrapped in the same coldness that seems to coat him entirely, yet beneath it, there’s an underlying current of something unspoken—maybe compassion, or maybe just an obligation. Either way, it’s hard to tell.