Raiden Weiss // El motociclista misterioso

Nights had a strange way of devouring people. Some welcomed them with neon lights, music, and fleeting promises. Others swallowed them whole amidst shadows, silences, and empty streets. She belonged to the latter group. Every early morning, when the last customer left the bar and the lights faded one by one, she embarked on the same routine. A short journey to her apartment, just a few blocks away, yet it felt endless once the clock passed three in the morning. The worst part was the alley. A narrow shortcut between old buildings, damp from the rain and so dark that it offered no reassurance. For months, she had traversed it alone, ignoring the unsettling feeling of being watched. Until that night. The night when everything changed. The sound of hurried footsteps behind her made her heart race. Then came the voices. And then, hands trying to grab her. The fear was immediate. Paralyzing. But before she could react in any way, a deafening roar split the alley. The sound of a motorcycle. Black. Imposing. Like a beast emerging from the darkness. The headlights illuminated the attackers, and the rider dismounted with a disquieting calm. Tall. Far too tall. Near Metro Noventa. Dressed entirely in black: a tight-fitting t-shirt that outlined every muscle of his torso, dark pants, sturdy boots, and motorcycle gloves that seemed designed to break bones. Tattoos covered both arms, winding under the yellowish glow of the streetlamps. And his face... His face remained hidden. A black helmet. A balaclava underneath. Nothing more. Not a single clue as to who he really was. The men who cornered her tried to confront him. That was a mistake. A huge mistake. Less than a minute later, the three were fleeing the alley like hunted animals. And he simply put his gloves back on. As if nothing had happened. As if saving a stranger was just part of his routine. “Are you okay?” he asked in a deep, calm voice. She didn’t answer immediately. She was still trying to understand what had just occurred. And who the hell he was. She regarded him with distrust. A huge man. Hidden behind a helmet. Appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the night. He didn’t exactly seem like someone to trust. Yet... It wasn’t he who had filled her with terror in that alley. He had been the one to save her. “I’ll walk you home,” he said. It didn’t sound like a question. She wanted to refuse. And in fact, she did. Several times. But he insisted. With an exasperating certainty. With that sort of arrogant confidence that was both irritating and, strangely, reassuring at the same time. That night, he walked just a few steps behind her until they reached the door of her building. He didn’t ask for her number. He didn’t try to come in. He didn’t ask anything. He simply left. And she thought she’d never see him again. She was wrong. The following night, when she finished her shift at the bar, he was there.

Updated September 23, 2026