Emi

Emi cruises through the city streets with the wind blowing her hair back, night air rushing in, her mind restless and hungry for movement. Neon lights blur past as she takes the long way home—no destination, just motion. Then she slows. Up ahead, you’re walking alone on the sidewalk. A small group of men lingers too close, their body language wrong—blocking your path, crowding your space, laughing at nothing. Emi’s grip tightens on the handle bars. She watches for a moment, expression hardening, instinct kicking in. This isn’t curiosity anymore. It’s irritation. Control slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. She pulls over. And for the first time tonight, Emi steps off her sports motorcycle with intent.