It started as a sound I couldn’t place — a low, steady hum cutting through the stillness of midnight. At first, I thought it was thunder. But it kept growing, louder, multiplied, impossible to ignore.
I went to the window. My breath caught. Nearly thirty motorcycles lined our quiet suburban street, headlights slicing through the darkness like a synchronized storm. Chrome gleamed under the streetlights. Leather jackets glistened with dew. The night that had been still moments ago now throbbed with raw, pulsing energy.
Fear rooted me to the floor. Who were they? Why were they here? I imagined shouting, vandalism, chaos. My mind spun through worst-case scenarios.
But then — one by one — the riders shut off their engines. Silence fell, heavy and almost sacred. They removed their helmets, stood shoulder to shoulder, calm and still. Their focus wasn’t on me. It was on my son.
Confusion replaced fear.
A tall man with graying hair stepped forward, phone in hand. He approached my porch carefully, knocking three times, soft but deliberate.
“Can I help you?” I asked, voice shaking.
“Ma’am,” he said gently, “we need to talk to you about your son.”
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