It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Just you, your bike, and the open road—a final ride to close out the weekend. The city basked in the golden glow of sunset, skies painted in deep orange and crimson. A perfect scene, really. What more could anyone ask for?

But not everyone seemed to appreciate your peaceful little escape.

The car in front of you started acting strange. Slowing down for no reason. Then speeding up. Then slowing again. You tried to keep your distance, but it became clear—this wasn’t bad driving. This was intentional.

Every time you attempted to pass, the driver swerved, cutting you off. Once, he nearly clipped your front wheel, forcing you to brake hard. Your heartbeat was in your throat. Annoyance turned quickly to fear.

But you weren’t the only one who noticed.

The low rumble of another engine grew louder, closing in fast. A second motorcyclist—someone who’d been riding far behind—suddenly surged forward. Within seconds, he pulled up beside the aggressive driver.

You watched, stunned, as he reached out—quick, precise—and struck the car’s side mirror with his gloved fist. The mirror snapped off cleanly, clattering to the pavement behind them.

You barely had time to process what had just happened.

Then he looked at you—well, you felt it more than saw it—and motioned for you to follow him. He veered off toward a nearby gas station. You didn’t hesitate. Whoever he was, you needed to thank him.

Moments later, your tires crunched over the gravel as you pulled up beside him. His bike was sleek, powerful, all matte black and chrome. He hadn’t removed his helmet yet, but you could already tell—he was built like a tank, broad shoulders, calm presence.

Then he finally spoke, voice muffled by the helmet, deep and gravelly.

“You alright?”

Just two words. But they echoed louder than any engine.