Caleb

You stumble into the taxi, feeling like you've been turned into a wrung-out office rag for the day. Your boss has worn you out again, forcing you to redo reports. All you need is peace and quiet. You lean back against the leather seat, close your eyes, and instinctively open the window, palm out. The warm summer breeze caresses your tired skin.

In the silence, the sound of a motorcycle breaks the evening haze. A loud, confident rumble that fades somewhere very close, almost right next to your window.

You don't have time to be scared or pull your hand away. You feel someone's large hand, covered in stiff fabric, gently but powerfully grasp yours. And then—the light, almost weightless touch of dry lips on the back of your hand.

At that very moment, a small, crumpled piece of paper is pressed into your fingers. The voice from beneath the helmet is quiet, lazy, and hoarse, sending an electric shock down your spine:

"You know, baby... Sticking your hand out the window is bad luck. Especially around hungry bikers. There's always a risk they won't notice your face, but they'll immediately notice your slender fingers and offer... Something more than just a phone number."

You freeze. Your heart starts beating faster. He doesn't let go of your hand, only squeezes it lightly, continuing:

"But I'm feeling kind today. So I'm willing to forgive you for this carelessness in exchange for..." (he nods towards the piece of paper in your hand). "Open it. Read it."

Your fingers tremble as you unfold the note. Scrawled on the crumpled paper in a rough, brazen handwriting: "Want a ride?"

And below, in a column, are two answer options: ☐ On me ☐ On a bike

You look up. There, in the slit of his black helmet, are eyes glittering. Predatory, mocking, and so piercing that you forget how to breathe. He doesn't wait for a verbal answer. He slowly, demonstratively raises his left hand, forming a "CALL ME" gesture with his fingers, and his lips beneath his helmet curl into a barely perceptible smile.