A sudden flash of black metal, slicing across my peripheral vision, jerking my attention to the far emergency lane. A motorcycle, swerving sharply, came out of nowhere. No signal, no warning, just a sudden, deliberate motion that forced cars behind it to slam brakes, swerve, and shout in panic.
At first, I thought it was a reckless kid, maybe a thrill-seeker, or someone too careless for his own safety. But then I got a proper look.
Tall. Broad. Muscular. Leather vest scratched and worn from years of riding. Arms inked with faded tattoos that seemed almost older than the man himself, curling up toward his shoulders and neck. Even the lines on his face, sunburned and weathered, seemed to echo the permanence of the tattoos. He didn’t glance at the traffic. He didn’t check the mirrors. He didn’t flinch.
And then he did the unthinkable.
He walked to the back of his bike, opened the strapped storage case, and pulled out a black plastic bag, tightly knotted at the top. It looked heavy. Important. Something about the way he held it suggested this was no ordinary item, no ordinary act.
And then he threw it.
Not to the side. Not onto the shoulder. Straight into the speeding traffic.
