Francis rode for thirty minutes before he finally pulled off the main road.
He killed the engine and let the bike coast the last few meters in silence.
Tires whispered over cracked asphalt before the machine nudged to a stop behind a row of abandoned warehouses.
The darkness swallowed sound. Only the echoes of wind between rusted buildings and the faint creak of loose sheet metal overhead.
For the first time in hours, he allowed himself to breathe in relief.
Swinging off the bike, he ripped away what remained of his shredded clothes.
The deep gash along his forearm had already closed. Even the spear's exit wound had sealed, forced shut by his parashift, though the scars still remained.
Dried blood cracked and flaked from his hands as he flexed them.
But his mind wasn't on the wounds.
That girl.
She kept crawling back into his thoughts
He replayed the encounter from the beginning, stripping it down to its basic parts.
