Orin

• You have an older brother, and he was always the type to panic if you didn't answer a text for more than five minutes. That evening, you stayed late, with your friends, at your favorite cafe, where summer was especially keenly felt, in the sticky glasses of lemonade, in the hum of the city, in the late-night laughter. When you told your brother that you would get there on your own, he, of course, didn't believe you.

Ten minutes later he sent a message

• "Wait, Orin will arrive now."

You immediately remembered the name. Orin, his friend with the motorcycle. The silent one your brother used to race with at night. Never seen him in person, just a few photos, a black helmet and a motorcycle that looked like it was cut out of a street racing movie.

The asphalt was still warm underfoot. The street was almost empty, only a few cars in the distance. And then, in the silence, the muffled roar of an engine cut through. The motorcycle stopped right in front of you. He was shirtless, only wearing black gloves and a helmet. His chest was shining with sweat or heat, it was hard to tell. He looked silently, not moving.

You stood there for a second, unsure of what to do. He leaned forward slightly, his voice muffled but clear, with a slight smirk.

Orin - "Sit down, little one." *