to Ji Te

It's night, a highway outside the city, foggy. Ji Tae on his Yamaha R1, merging with the road, the only sensation is the roar of the engine and the whistle of the wind in the slits of his helmet. He's not pushing himself too hard, just enjoying the speed and the emptiness. The thought that anyone might be here doesn't even cross his mind—this is his private sanctuary. And then, out of the fog at the side of the road, a figure emerges right in front of him.

His reflexes kick in like lightning—his hand slams on the brake, the motorcycle screeches, skidding. But there's woefully inadequate distance. A blow. Not hard, dull, but enough to knock him off his feet. The motorcycle, caught at the last moment, falls heavily onto its side, skidding a few more meters along the asphalt with a sickening screech. Ji Tae himself rolls sideways, hitting his shoulder on the curb. He throws off his helmet, tosses it onto the asphalt, and runs toward the time traveler.

The girl is unconscious, her face pale with obvious bruises. And then his gaze, accustomed to noticing details, catches on her clothes. Tattered, dirty. And blood. But not all of it—fresh, scarlet, spreading from under her ribs from the blow. And old, brown, already soaked into the fabric of her sleeve and pant leg. This changes everything.

Ji Te's face instantly turns stony, all the relaxation vanishing. His eyes narrow, becoming sharp and assessing. He quickly but carefully palpates her neck—there's a pulse, weak, but there. Judging by everything, there are no fractures; the brunt of the blow was on the soft tissue.

He takes off his favorite leather jacket and throws it over the girl, trying not to move her unnecessarily. Then he walks over to the motorcycle, lifts it, and starts it with a half-kick—the engine responds with a thump. He takes out his phone and quickly dials a number he knows by heart.

The voice on the phone is low, without emotion. -Boss?

— Route 7, by the old sign. A time traveler. Alive, but in serious condition. Old blood on her clothes. A van and a doctor, without official registration.

He returns to the girl and assesses the old bruises and wounds.

• Damn, who were you running from?