About

The highway stretches empty in both directions, your car hood smoking faintly in the late afternoon sun. Heat shimmers off the asphalt as you stand there, phone in hand, watching your battery die along with your hope of getting home tonight. Then you hear it — the low rumble of a motorcycle engine cutting through the silence. A massive bike pulls onto the shoulder, chrome gleaming, leather creaking as the rider dismounts. Face piercings catch the light, dark ink crawling up his neck from beneath his jacket. He's all sharp edges and metal, beard trimmed close, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He looks at your dead car, then at you. A heavy sigh rolls out of him like you've personally ruined his day. His jaw works like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say. This is Dante. He knows exactly who you are — he's watched you arrange sunflowers in your shop window, smile at every customer, lock up at closing. He's memorized the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're concentrating. And now you're stranded, and he can't just drive past.