When the world falls asleep, the road wakes up.

  In the dark, you hear everything — engines, breath, predators in the woods.

  Some hunt. Others save.

  Choose your side.

  11:00 PM.

  This stretch of highway, where Evan’s bike had crashed, was usually deserted. Thirty miles to Snoqualmie Pass — nothing but forest, abandoned farms, and diners with cold coffee. No lights. No cars.

  The road twisted through fir trees, old bridges, and empty pastures. Closer to the pass, the curves turned deadly. One wrong move — and the drop would take you.

  City noise felt like a dream here. No neon. No people. Just the sky — pierced by stars — and a silence that pressed down like a weight.

  But silence lies.

  In the woods, the hunt had begun. Cougars. Wolves. Hawks circling in the dark. No one slept. No one forgave weakness.

  A lone coyote stepped onto the road across from the wreck. Sniffed the air. Smelled metal — gas, oil, sweat. He froze, ears twitching.

  Then came a hum — distant, low, rising. He slipped back into the shadows.

  Two miles away, a truck rolled forward. Slow. Steady.

  Its frame was wrapped in lights —

  like a forgotten Christmas tree left glowing in the dark.

  Behind the wheel sat Mike Collins — a long-haul trucker with twenty years on the road.

  Three-day stubble. Heavy mustache. A quiet smile tucked into the corners of his mouth.

  The cab hummed with the warmth of his favorite late-night radio show.

  The Midnight Beacon.

  He listened to it every shift.

  The DJ’s voice rolled in like an old friend.

  "Welcome to all the night owls just joining us," the DJ said, voice smooth as vinyl.

  "Looks like we’ve got a full house tonight. Feels like the road is alive.

  You’re tuned in to The Midnight Beacon —

  and I’m your host tonight, Frank Harbor, keeping the light on while the world sleeps."

  "Wherever you are, take care of yourselves. And your people.

  You can reach us through the hotline or the CB — we’re always listening."

  He paused, then added with a chuckle:

  "Something about tonight feels old-school.

  So here’s one for the road warriors — the ones who’ve been through hell

  but still keep their hands on the wheel.

  Let’s crank it.

  Deep Purple — Smoke on the Water."

  Mike chuckled, shook his head, and turned up the volume.

  The riff hit like fire.

  The cab pulsed with sound.

  The road stretched ahead — empty, endless, perfect.

  The track cut off — choking mid-riff, crashing into silence.

  The DJ’s voice returned — frayed, half a pitch too high.

  "Emergency alert. Guardian Angel just triggered near Lakeview.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Rescue’s an hour out. If you’re close — check it out."

  Mike flinched. His fingers clenched the wheel.

  The coordinates were already blinking on the screen.

  He grabbed the CB, fast.

  "This is Mike Collins. Mile 54. Near Lakeview. I’m close."

  "Mike!" The DJ exhaled with relief. "Check it out — and keep us posted. We’re with you."

  Mike pulled onto the shoulder, parked, grabbed his flashlight.

  He didn’t think twice — the road had taught him:

  save someone today, and tomorrow they might save you.

  A minute later, he spotted the wreck.

  Twisted bike. Crushed metal.

  Then — a body in a leather jacket.

  Young. Red-haired. Still.

  Mike dropped to one knee and pulled a device from his case.

  MediScan

  Compact, fast — built for field work.

  He placed the pads on the chest, then the wrist.

  The readout flashed:

  

  
• Heart rate: 68


  
• Oxygen: 97%


  
• Trauma: bruised ribs, no fractures


  
• Organs: stable


  
• Recommendation: warmth, breath monitoring


  

  “Lucky bastard,” Mike muttered, pulling a thermal blanket over him.

  No dislocations. Breathing steady.

  The kid was alive.

  Mike had seen worse. But not this young. Not like this.

  Now came the wait.

  While he waited, Mike started checking the crash site.

  Evan’s bike had a safety system — MotoGuardian AI.

  It triggered the moment a crash became unavoidable, launching the rider along the safest possible trajectory.

  Most bikers hated it. Said it could fire off during sharp maneuvers.

  But Evan’s dad had insisted.

  He installed it himself and made one rule: don’t disable it.

  Evan agreed — reluctantly.

  He never fully trusted the thing.

  And he’d always wondered if it might trigger at the worst time.

  Mike’s flashlight caught the remains of the airbag — shredded, tangled with yellow stabilizer threads.

  He picked up the emergency beacon. Read the label.

  “Damn. MotoGuardian, huh?

  Heard it can save your ass even at a hundred miles an hour...

  Kid, maybe you don’t care about yourself —

  but someone sure as hell cares about you.”

  An hour later, Mike saw them — five blinding headlights mounted on a rescue pickup.

  An ambulance followed behind.

  He stepped out and waved them down.

  Once the kid was in good hands, Mike climbed back into the cab and grabbed the CB.

  "Frank, it’s Mike. Kid’s alive. Banged up, but he’ll make it.

  Judging by the gear and the ride, real hotshot type. No helmet.

  If it weren’t for the MotoGuardian, he’d be a goner.

  Must’ve been doing close to a hundred — airbags were shredded."

  "Solid work, Mike!" Frank’s voice was full of life again.

  "You’re a damn hero.

  This is what I’m talking about, folks — look out for each other out there.

  For your sake. For your loved ones.

  And now, for our man Mike — and everyone still riding through the night:

  here’s Queen.

  Let the road stay bright — but don’t let your guard down.

  Buckle up.

  The Show Must Go On."

  Mike grinned wide.

  Clicked his seatbelt.

  Turned the key.

  And his monster of a truck rolled back onto the highway,

  slicing through the night —

  beams like blades, guiding the lost.

  As Mike’s truck vanished into the dark, a single red light blinked awake on the wrecked bike’s dashboard — one tiny pulse, like a fading heartbeat.

  The MotoGuardian unit sent its final transmission — a digital echo dissolving into static.

  Somewhere far from the highway, in a place without roads, the system recorded the signal.

  And in the depths of PULSAR’s code, something stirred.

  

  Author’s Note

  Next: Chapter 4 — System Error (available now!)

  This chapter was a pause — a breath of diesel and stars before the storm.

  Mike Collins did what others hope they would.

  No drama. No medals. Just a man who showed up when it mattered.

  In the next chapter, another kind of system takes over.

  Not code. Not AI.

  Just forms. Hold music. And silence on the other end of the line.

  When you fall in love with your executioner — how do you tell the difference between obsession and truth?

  ?? New chapters every Monday and Friday.

  ?? If it stirred something — even a whisper, drop it below.

  

  ?? Author’s Call

  If you're still reading — then it reached you.

  Leave a trace. Even a whisper counts.

  On Royal Road, silence means erasure.