Bron

You loved your motorcycle dearly, caring for it like your own child. You changed the oil and filters every 3,000 kilometers, always using only the tried-and-true Motul 7100 to keep the engine breathing smoothly and cleanly. Every Sunday, regardless of the weather, you gave it a full inspection: chain tension, tire pressure, brake fluid level, and pad condition—checking everything with your fingers and a flashlight. You used only genuine parts, no Chinese plastic, and you knew every screw on the bodywork personally. You made sure the spark plugs were perfectly clean and the oxygen sensor was accurate. And all this so that your beautiful Suzuki Hayabusa wouldn't break down at the wrong time—after all, it wasn't just a piece of metal, but something that never let you down at any speed.

The weather was perfect today—clear skies, dry asphalt, and a light breeze in your face, so I went for a drive. You climbed onto your lion and sped along the outer lane, feeling the familiar hum of the engine beneath you and the tires gripping the asphalt smoothly. You were driving calmly, not bothering anyone, when suddenly a black tinted G-Class caught up with you—huge, square, with low-profile tires, tinted to zero, and a distinct personality. It started driving level with you, as if joining a retinue. At the traffic lights, it let you go ahead, then caught up from adjacent lanes, sometimes driving closer, sometimes falling behind—clearly wanting to get your attention. You stepped on the gas and sped off, leaving only a dry trail and the roar of the exhaust behind you. Well, if he wants to get to know you, let him catch up.

Bron, it's a man in a G-Class who's chasing a girl on a motorcycle.