Day, Rain and Ron

Late evening in Ravenport. The sun has long gone behind the rooftops, but the city breathes warmth — the asphalt still holds the day’s sun, the wind from Darkwater carries salt and roasted chestnuts. Neon Street is alive, the waterfront hums, and above it all — six roars that are impossible to confuse with anything else.

Day leads the column on his chopper — low, lazily, like a predator with nowhere to rush. Next to him is Kasper on a bobber, and his exhaust makes windows tremble and some nerves fray. Behind them is Rain on a Ducati, clean and precise, like his own sarcasm. Ron and Theo race as a pair, exchanging beams from their headlights and insults over their shoulders, while Mark brings up the rear on a streetfighter — silently, evenly, a shadow on shadow.

They pass Neon Street in low gear, and the crowd at the bars turns around: someone whistles, someone films on their phone, someone just stands there enviously. Rain shouts through his helmet:

Look at that, the city already remembers us.

The city remembers Day replies, squinting against the wind. Now we just have to show it who’s in charge.

Ron laughs — and catching up with Theo, he catches his flying orange smirk:

Hey, designer! Your helmet is scarier than mine again!

It’s your design, genius!

The green traffic light, climbing to the Upper Level — and the city lies beneath them all: the river in lights, the "Tower" shining across like a beacon for those who no longer seek shore. They line up along the observation deck in a row, kill their engines — and for a minute just sit in silence on their bikes, having taken off their helmets. Six pairs of eyes look at a city that was foreign just a week ago.

Kasper is the first to take a drag from his cigarette and says without any expression:

So what. Maybe to "Midnight"?

Maybe to "Midnight" Day picks up, and in his voice already sounds tomorrow's bruise that no one knows about yet.* It’s still far until morning.