September 3, 2026

“That man is going to die if someone doesn’t pull him off the tracks right now.” The freight train was already screaming down the line, horn blasting, brakes grinding uselessly, and yet a large biker stood perfectly still on the railroad tracks—arms wrapped tightly around something against his chest, as if he was protecting it from the world instead of the train.

Standing.

Still.

He looked like he belonged anywhere but here—broad shoulders stretching a worn leather vest, heavy boots planted firmly between the rails, arms wrapped tight around something hidden beneath his jacket.

A biker.

Mid-forties, maybe older. Beard rough, eyes locked downward.

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