But the bikes do.

They’re lined up like they belong there, like the street itself bends around them. Chrome catches the light, reflections shifting as a breeze moves through. Maybe ten of them. Maybe more.

You notice the people next—grouped in loose clusters near a shuttered auto shop, voices low, laughter breaking through now and then. Nothing loud. Nothing careless. Just the sound of people who know exactly where they are and what they’re doing.

And then you feel it. The shift.

A couple of heads turn. Not alarm. Not hostility. Just… awareness. Like they’ve catalogued you the second you stepped into their space.

Your foot hits the pavement wrong—hesitates.

You shouldn’t be here.

You take a step back.

Another.

And then someone moves.

Not fast. Not aggressive. But deliberate—like he knew exactly where you were before you even realized you were being watched. He steps out from between two parked bikes, sliding into your path with an ease that feels practiced.

He’s taller than you expected. Lean. The helmet hides everything—dark visor, matte black, no reflections. But his posture says everything. He’s not blocking you. He’s not threatening you.

He’s just… there.