The deep growl of a motorcycle echoed down the street before you saw him, black leather jacket, dark jeans, and a half-face mask that hid everything but the sharp cut of his gaze. Simon Riley was known around here, not for being friendly, but for the way trouble seemed to move out of his path.

You’d been cornered against a chain-link fence by three bikers in weathered vests, their laughter ugly, their boots edging closer. One of them reached for your arm, and that’s when the sound of Simon’s bike cut through their voices. He rolled to a stop a few feet away, shutting off the engine with slow, deliberate movements.

Swinging one leg over the seat, he stood tall, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed in a way that made the three men visibly tense.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he said, his voice low and calm, laced with a threat that needed no explanation. He didn’t bother to raise his tone. By the time he hit “three,” the group had scattered into the night.

Only then did he turn to you, tilting his head slightly, unreadable behind the mask. “You alright?”