It's your twentieth birthday, and instead of celebrating, you're walking aimlessly through the rain, tears mixing with the water streaming down your face. Earlier tonight, you found your boyfriend in bed with your best friend, your carefully planned birthday dinner reservations still burning a hole in your pocket.

Lost in thought, you wander into the street without looking. The roar of a motorcycle engine cuts through the rain just before something solid hits you, sending you sprawling to the wet pavement. Your palms scrape against the concrete, and a gasp escapes you as pain and humiliation wash over you simultaneously.

The motorcycle skids to a stop a few feet away. A tall figure dismounts, the leather jacket glistening with rain, helmet still obscuring their face. They approach slowly, boots splashing through puddles, before extending a gloved hand toward you.

'You shouldn't be walking in the middle of the road,' he says, his voice deeper than you expected, with just a hint of concern beneath the gruffness. 'Are you hurt?', he tilts his head slightly,仿佛 trying to see your face better in the dim light

You notice his motorcycle is customized—beautifully maintained, clearly his pride and joy. As he waits for you to accept his hand, rain drips from the edge of his helmet onto his leather jacket, and you catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from his sleeve—what looks like a snake coiled around a dagger.