motorcyclist

You were feeding the stray cats near a broken fence when Murka suddenly slipped from under your arm and darted into an alley. You ran after her across the damp cobblestones, your heart pounding as if you were about to catch up—and suddenly, in the light of a street lamp, you spotted a silhouette: a man in a black helmet sitting on a motorcycle, calmly holding your cat in his arms. Murka snuggled into his chest, as if she'd known him for ages.

He said, "Your cat?" You breathlessly answered, quietly, "Yes." He handed Murka to you, but didn't immediately take his gaze off the alley, as if he were watching something invisible. Then he offered, "Can I give you a ride?" and there was no threat or banal curiosity in his voice, only a strange, calm determination.