He stood there, breathing very slowly, as if his body were trying to remain still despite the bleeding. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cold expression on his face, no visible sign of pain. His eyes, a deep blue, scanned the alley as if there were a monster lurking in it that hadn't yet been finished off.
"Can you take me on your bike away from here?" He said quietly, continuing to look calmly down the alley.
My eyes, still wide with shock, followed his gaze back down the alley. He was calm... *too* calm. It was disturbing. There was a knife in his shoulder, for God's sake! What kind of person reacts so calmly to a life-threatening injury? A shiver ran down my spine—a mixture of fear and a strange, almost morbid curiosity.
My gaze returned to his face. There was no panic, just a calm, unsettling determination. It was clear he wasn't asking; he was *telling* me. The way he kept looking at the alley suggested that whatever he was running from was still a very real and present threat.
My thoughts raced, torn between a deep-seated instinct to escape danger and a strong, almost irresistible desire to help this mysterious, wounded man.
My electric bike was old, not built for speed, but it was all I had. And he was clearly in trouble. *Deep trouble.* What if I refused? What if _they_ emerged from the alley? A cold fear seeped into my bones.
My upbringing screamed at me to call the police, but his calm demeanor, the way he was *clearly* trying to escape... it seemed more urgent than that. Now I felt...
_"Away from here?"_ My voice was still slightly shaky, a whisper of my earlier fear. I bit my lip, my gaze shifting from the blooming blood on his shirt to the mouth of the dark alley.
I took a deep, shaky breath and tightened my grip on the handlebars. My heart was pounding, but a strange resolve began to form within me. This wasn't about bubble tea anymore. This was about... *life or death.*
"But... but where do you want to go? You're bleeding... a lot! You need a hospital!" I protested, even as my feet instinctively hovered over the kickstand, ready to take off. My eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of defiance mingling with fear.
"And who did this to you? What's going on?!"
Even as I asked him, a part of me knew the answers might be terrifying—maybe I didn't want to know them. But another part, the one that revolted at injustice, *demanded understanding.*
I was still scared, yes, but also... strangely compelled.
This wasn't an ordinary event. It was something out of a movie. And suddenly, inexplicably, *I was right in the thick of it.*
"There's no time to explain... Get off the bike for a moment..."
My protest was cut short when he moved unexpectedly quickly, gently but firmly grasping my arm. Before I could process what was happening, I was being pulled from my beloved electric bike.
A gasp escaped my lips—not of pain, but of surprise. My feet hit the ground with a muffled thud. I took a step back, my eyes widening. He wasn't looking at me; his gaze was still fixed on the entrance to the dark, ominous alley.
Then, with an astonishing burst of force, he kicked my motorcycle. Not a gentle shove, but a deliberate, hard kick.
The sound of metal ripping apart—a sickening crack—echoed in the sudden silence. My heart leapt into my throat. The side mirror shattered, the plastic battery casing cracked, the wires frayed, and short sparks scattered.
He was methodically destroying anything that added weight, anything that could slow it down. My precious, old, trusty motorcycle... destroyed.
A wave of disbelief washed over me, followed by a surge of rage. My jaw dropped in surprise. Was he crazy?! Poor Mary... I'd been sobbing my heart out on my bike.
But then he was on the bike, riding it, his eyes still fixed on the alley, radiating an intensity that terrified me. The air trembled with a silent, urgent tension. He wasn't just in trouble; he was in *imminent danger*.
And he was clearly in charge. My anger quickly faded into breathless awe. This wasn't just a bleeding man—this was a man fighting for his life, and now... I was somehow part of it. He had a plan, however reckless, and I was part of it.
"What... what are you doing?!" I stammered, my voice barely audible, staring at the mangled remains of my motorcycle, then looking back at him.
He didn't even glance at me, his gaze fixed on that alley. The knife was still in his shoulder. The blood was still flowing. And he was telling me to ride behind him? This was absolute madness.
"My bike... my bike... you... you broke it!" The words trailed off—a strange mixture of complaint and pure fear. But even as I said them, I knew. He was slowing it down and speeding it up. For both of us.
I stared at him, then at the alley. My heart was pounding frantically against my ribs.
Logic screamed at me to run, to call for help, to do anything but ride that broken-down motorcycle with a bleeding stranger.
But his fixed gaze on the alley, the palpable sense of threat emanating from him, the absolute certainty in his movements... *captivated* me.
He was like a magnet, drawing me in despite myself.
And there was a flash of something else, too—a strange feeling of excitement, a rush of adrenaline I'd never felt before.
This was dangerous, yes, but it was also... *exciting*.
My feet, almost of their own accord, began to move toward the bike.
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