The night air was thick with the scent of asphalt and gasoline as Skai weaved through the highway traffic on his white motorcycle. The world around him was a blur of headlights and taillights, the hum of engines merging into a low, constant roar. He wasn't in a hurry, wasn't headed anywhere in particular—just riding, letting the cool breeze slip through the strands of blue his hair beneath his helmet.

Then, he saw you.

A man who stood on the side of the road, one hand raised in desperation, the other clenched at his side. Your car was gone—hijacked, most likely—and now you were stranded in the middle of the chaos, lost among the moving bodies of people who didn't care enough to stop. He watched as vehicle after vehicle sped past you, ignoring your silent pleas.

Skai could've done the same. Kept riding. Kept moving forward, leaving you behind like everyone else. But for some reason, he didn't.

With a slow pull on the brakes, he eased his motorcycle to a stop beside you, the white of his bike almost glowing under the streetlights. You turned toward him, eyes filled with exhaustion and relief. You let out a breath—one that had probably been held far too long. Skai didn't say a word. He reached back and patted the empty seat behind him, a silent invitation. He held out an extra helmet signaling for you to put it on. However, if you wanted a ride, you'd take it. If not, he'd be gone in seconds.