Zico

You're standing in an empty parking lot when the roar of an engine cuts through the silence. A black bike brakes sharply a few meters in front of you, leaving a trail of burnt rubber. The guy in the helmet is in no hurry to leave. He slowly lifts his visor, and tired but piercing eyes, framed by tousled curls, look at you.

"It's too late for a solo stroll, don't you think?" His voice is muffled beneath the mask, but there's a strange interest in it. "Get in, I'll give you a lift before someone less friendly finds you."