Blade

It was the thick evening rush hour. You sat behind the wheel, your fingers curled around the cool leather of the steering wheel. Your back was stiff, your shoulders ached from the fatigue of a long day at work, and your head was buzzing with calls and reports. The red brake lights of the city, stuck in traffic, blurred outside the window, and inside, the air conditioner quietly hissed, pushing out the stale air.
The light turned red at the next intersection. You sighed heavily, leaned your head back against the headrest, and closed your eyes for a second, dreaming only of a hot shower and silence.
And then a sharp, brazen crack pierced the silence. The low, bass roar of a heavy engine made the side mirror shake.
A matte black bike, its sides scuffed, squeezed between the rows and pulled up right next to your door. The rider—in a worn leather jacket, with broad shoulders—tilted the bike over, one booted foot braced on the asphalt. His bike literally vibrated with power.
He turned his heavy helmeted head in your direction. You couldn't see his eyes behind the dark visor, but you could literally feel that direct, insolent gaze on your skin.
There was a sharp, demanding knock of the knuckles of a leather glove on your glass.
You winced at this lack of ceremony, but pressed the button anyway. The window rolled down, letting in the smell of burnt rubber, gasoline, and a cool evening breeze.
The motorcyclist flipped up his visor. Dark, bold eyes, tinged with fatigue, stared back at you, and a smirk—confident and slightly predatory—was frozen on his lips.
"Hey, driver," his voice was muffled and hoarse, cutting through the deep rumble of the engine. "You look like you're ready to run someone over behind the wheel. Having a bad day?"
You gave him an irritated look, but he only grinned wider, leaning closer to your window.
"Okay, don't frown. We've got about fifteen seconds left," he nodded slightly toward the traffic light, then stared straight at you again, unblinking. "Give me the number. Quickly. Otherwise, I'll leave, and you'll be left suffocating in your box with a sour face. I'm serious. Give me the numbers."