I remember the smell of concrete and oil, the echo of our footsteps, and the terrifying realization that I was losing control of the situation far too quickly.
Then, without warning, a roar split the air.
A motorcycle surged into view at the entrance of the level, its headlight flooding the space with blinding white light. The man holding me cursed and turned, loosening his grip just enough for me to gasp.
The rider did not hesitate.
He dismounted in one fluid motion, crossed the distance in seconds, and wrenched my attacker away from me with a strength that shocked both of us. The man stumbled, tried to fight back, then bolted toward the stairs when he realized he was outmatched.
The rider did not chase him. Instead, he positioned himself between me and the direction the man had fled, scanning the shadows as if daring him to return.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice calm but alert.
I could barely answer. My whole body was shaking, and I felt cold despite the warmth of the garage.