Bullies Harassed Schoolgirls Every Day After School — Until the Bikers Found Them

By the time the last bell rang at Riverbend High, Chloe Martin could already feel the knot in her stomach tightening.

It wasn’t the math test she’d just bombed or the English essay she’d barely turned in on time. It was the walk home.

Her little sister, Lily, bounced up beside her, clutching her backpack to her chest instead of wearing it properly.

“You ready?” Lily asked, trying to sound casual. Her voice still had that soft, hopeful lilt, like she hadn’t learned yet that the world could be cruel.

Chloe shifted her own backpack and forced a smile. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They stepped through the front doors into the late afternoon light. The California sun washed the parking lot in gold, warming the asphalt and making the rows of cars shimmer. Kids poured out of the building, laughing, shouting, clacking locker locks shut. Somewhere across the lot, a football slammed into someone’s hands and a chorus of “Bro!” broke out.

But all Chloe’s focus tunneled in on the far edge of the lot, where the sidewalk dipped past the loading dock and cut behind the row of stores: a nail salon, a vape shop, a little independent coffee place called Rusty Mug.

And there they were.

Three boys leaned against the red brick wall of the vape shop like they owned the street. Letterman jackets slung over their shoulders, baseball caps backwards, phones in their hands.

Trent Harper. Quarterback, junior, and crowned prince of Riverbend High’s stupid social ladder.

Kyle Moreno. Bigger than the others, all bulk, the sort of guy who’d been shaving since eighth grade.

Mason Ellis. Skinny, always laughing, always filming.

They saw the sisters and straightened like they’d heard a cue.

“Showtime,” Chloe muttered.

Lily’s fingers brushed against hers. “Maybe they’re tired today,” she whispered.

Chloe didn’t answer. Experience had already taught her better.

They crossed the parking lot, trying to blend into the tide of students, but kids instinctively flowed around them, like everyone knew to clear the lane. Chloe saw one girl glance at them with sympathy before looking away fast, guilty.

Don’t look at them. Don’t look at them. Don’t—

“Hey, Martin sisters!” Trent’s voice cracked across the open space, loud and bright and fake-friendly. “Got a sec?”

Chloe kept walking. Lily’s steps faltered.

Trent pushed off the wall, his white sneakers barely making a sound as he closed the distance. Kyle and Mason trailed behind, Mason already raising his phone like he was lining up a shot.

“Yo, we’re talking to you,” Kyle said, deep and flat.

Chloe felt them fall in beside them like they did every day. One on each side, one trailing behind, herding them off the main path toward the loading dock.

She knew the dance. She hated how familiar it felt.

“Big day in class, Lily?” Mason asked, phone pointed, the little red light blinking. “You pass that algebra quiz, or did you cry again?”

Lily’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her eyes on the ground.

“Leave her alone,” Chloe said quietly. Her voice sounded thin even to her own ears.

Trent slung an arm around her shoulders, all casual like they were old friends. “Relax, Chloe. Just asking questions. Friendly questions. We care. Right, guys?”

Kyle grunted approval.

They were close enough now that the laughter of other students faded. The concrete ramp of the loading dock rose to their left, stains on its surface from years of deliveries. Ahead, the alley cut between the back of the stores and the chain-link fence separating school property from the old mill yard.

It was never crowded here. That was the point.

Every day after school, for the last three months, they’d done this. Block them in. Taunt them. Record everything.

They didn’t touch them much. Not really. A shove here, a yank on a backpack strap there. It was the words. The way they got under your skin and stayed there, replaying at night, chipping away.

“Why you walking so fast?” Trent asked. “You got somewhere important to be?”

Chloe shrugged his arm off. “We’ve got homework.”

“Oooh. Homework,” Mason echoed. “Nerd stuff. Classic Chloe.”

He angled his phone toward Lily. “Hey, Lily, you still got that stutter when you read out loud, or did your special-ed teacher fix that?”

Lily flinched. “I don’t stutter,” she said, too fast, which only made her sound more nervous.

“Sure, sure.” Trent grinned. “You guys see her last month in English? ‘Th-th-the… the…’” He imitated her, dragging it out, laughter bouncing off the brick.

Mason spun around in front of them, walking backwards, filming each flinch, each twitch.

Chloe moved closer to her sister, hand on her elbow. “Let’s just go,” she said.

“Stop recording us,” Lily blurted, louder than she’d meant to.

Mason’s smile widened. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you say stop? Pretty sure this is a free country. Public property. I’m making content. Got a right, don’t I, Trent?”

“Damn straight,” Trent said.

They followed the girls to the end of the alley, where it opened to the street. Cars whooshed by. Across the road, the Rusty Mug sat under a faded sign, its big front window fogged from the espresso machine inside. There were bikes parked out front—actual motorcycles, not the pedal kind. Big chrome things that gleamed in the sunlight.

They’d been there the last couple of weeks. Rumbling, loud, their riders in leather and denim, sometimes laughing, sometimes just sitting there, watching the world go by.

Today was no different.

There were four motorcycles lined up in front of the Rusty Mug. A man with a thick gray beard and a black bandana sat at one of the sidewalk tables, a mug in his meaty hand. A woman with a sleeve of colorful tattoos leaned against the railing, scrolling her phone. Another guy in a worn Army surplus jacket sat on the curb, smoking, boots planted wide.

Chloe had never gotten close enough to read the patch on their jackets, but she’d seen the designs: a winged gear, a road, the words IRON GUARDIANS curved over the top.

They were intimidating as hell. Not in the stupid jock way Trent and his crew tried to be—this was something older, heavier. Real danger, or at least the memory of it. You could feel it coming off them like heat from an engine.

Maybe that was why Trent always got a little louder when they approached this block. Like he’d decided they were his audience.

“Anyway,” he said, pausing at the mouth of the alley. “We were talking about your video, Lily.”

Lily went rigid. “What video?”

“The one you sent that weirdo boy in chemistry.” Mason chuckled, and the other two laughed with him, even though Chloe knew Mason was the only one who’d actually seen anything. He made up half the crap he said, just to see if it stuck.

“I didn’t—” Lily started, but he cut her off.

“Relax, relax. Your secrets are safe with us.” He tapped his phone. “I mean, unless I accidentally upload the wrong file to my TikTok. Could happen. I’m clumsy.”

He wasn’t. He was careful. That was the worst part. Everything he did was thought out.

Chloe’s patience snapped. “You’re full of it. You don’t have anything. You just say stuff to make her scared.”

Mason made a mock-shocked face. “Wow. You sound angry, Chloe. You good? You want a hug?”

He stepped closer, arms opening like some cartoon clown. Chloe backed up into the brick wall, heart pounding.

That was their thing: get in close, crowding, making it feel like the air was running out.

“Hey.” The gray-bearded man across the street had looked up, his gaze narrowing. He set his mug down.

Trent glanced over his shoulder, eyes connecting with the biker’s for half a second. His smile flickered, but only for a breath.

Then he turned back to Chloe and leaned in, his face so close she could smell his cologne, sharp and synthetic.

“Smile for the camera,” he murmured.

Mason’s phone was inches from her face.

For a wild second, Chloe pictured knocking it out of his hand and stomping it into the concrete.

Instead, she looked down at Lily. Her little sister’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears, jaw clenched, lips pressed together like she was physically holding words inside. She looked smaller than usual, like someone had deflated her.

Chloe swallowed the urge to fight and grabbed Lily’s arm. “Come on.”

They stepped around the boys and hurried toward the crosswalk.

“Hey, we’re not done!” Trent called, but he didn’t follow this time. He stayed at the mouth of the alley, watching.

The biker at the café table didn’t look away.

As the girls reached the crosswalk, a pickup truck rolled to a stop, giving them the right of way. Chloe tugged Lily across. She could feel their audience—Trent and his crew, the random drivers, the bikers at the Rusty Mug—but by then she’d learned how to stare at the ground and shrink her world to the inches in front of her shoes.

Only when they’d turned the corner and the school disappeared behind the tree line did Lily finally speak.

“I hate them,” she whispered.

Chloe exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“They’re never going to stop.”

For a moment, Chloe didn’t have an answer. Because it felt true. The school did nothing. The principal talked about “peer conflict” and “misunderstandings.” Their mom worked double shifts at the hospital and didn’t have energy for crusades. Their dad practically lived at the garage he managed.

And Trent’s dad sat on the school board and donated jerseys and new lockers every year.

No one was going to put their foot down for the Martins. That much had been made clear.

Chloe squeezed Lily’s hand. “We’ll figure something out,” she said, even though she had no idea what that “something” could possibly be.

Behind them, engines rumbled to life—low, vibrating thunder rolling over the afternoon.

Lily glanced back, then looked up at her sister. “Those bike guys… they were watching.”

“Yeah,” Chloe said.

“Do you think they noticed?”

Chloe thought of the gray-bearded man’s hard stare, the way his hand had tightened around the mug.

“Maybe,” she said.

She had no idea that in a few days, that “maybe” would change everything.

---

The Iron Guardians had rules, and Jack “Bear” Lawson believed in rules.

He believed in other things too: oil and steel and the simple math of torque, the way fixing an engine felt like making sense out of chaos. But mostly, Bear believed in codes. In lines you didn’t cross.

He’d done twelve years in the Army before he ever bought a Harley. He’d seen enough real monsters overseas to know the difference between harmless idiots and genuine predators.

Lately, though, that line seemed to blur.

“You’re staring again,” Roxy said, leaning on the rusted railing outside the Rusty Mug. Her black hair was shaved on one side, long and wavy on the other, and a silver hoop glinted in her eyebrow.

Bear grunted. “I’m watching,” he said.

Roxy followed his gaze toward the school across the street. “The jock squad?”

He nodded.

He’d first noticed them two weeks ago while drinking his afternoon coffee, a ritual that had started after his doctor told him to lay off the beer if he wanted his back to last another decade. The boys had corralled two girls into the alley, all swagger and laughter.

At first, Bear had chalked it up to regular teenage crap. Every generation had its jerks. He’d been one, once.

But then he’d seen the phone. The way the kid with the sharp chin filmed, never lowering the camera even when the girl’s shoulders hunched. The way the blond one stepped too close, his grin never touching his eyes.

The day after that, it happened again.

And again.

Every damn day at three fifteen.

“There’s patterns,” Bear said softly. “You watch long enough, you see the patterns.”

Roxy took a pull from her iced coffee. “You think they’re just messing around, or…?”

“Messing around doesn’t look like that.”

The door to the café swung open and D’Angelo, the owner, popped his head out. “Bear, your motorcycle Jesus documentary is on back order,” he announced, wiping his hands on a towel. “You want a refund or store credit?”

“Store credit’s fine.” Bear waved a hand, eyes still on the school. Two girls had just emerged—slender, brown-haired, backpacks hanging low. The older one had that wary scan he recognized from soldiers on patrol. The younger clutched her bag to her chest like a shield.

The boys broke off from the wall and started their little parade.

Roxy’s playful expression soured. “Oh, I hate that,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” Bear said. His coffee had gone cold.

“You gonna do something?” she asked.

Bear’s jaw flexed. “Not yet.”

He’d learned the hard way that some things couldn’t be rushed. You had to be sure before you stepped into someone else’s battle.

But as he watched the three boys curve the girls toward the alley again, watched the one with the phone raise it like a weapon, he felt the familiar itch under his skin.

Don’t be impulsive, he told himself. Be smart.

Still, when his phone buzzed, he answered quickly.

“Yo,” came a voice in his ear. Mikey. The club’s youngest member, barely thirty and still eager to prove himself.

“Where you at?” Bear asked.

“Coming down Oak, why?”

“Swing by the Mug. Park where you can see the school. And… turn your dashcam on.”

There was a beat. “We expecting a show?”

“Something like that.”

---

It wasn’t like Chloe hadn’t tried to get help.

She’d done what every anti-bullying poster told her to do. First, she’d blocked the boys’ accounts online. That lasted a day. They made new ones—fake profiles that liked her pictures and then commented with emojis that felt like threats even when they weren’t words.

She went to Mrs. Helm, the guidance counselor. Mrs. Helm had listened, nodding, hands folded.

“Bullying is serious, Chloe,” she’d said, in that soft, practiced voice. “Did they threaten you directly? Use any slurs?”

“No,” Chloe admitted. “But they record us. They corner us. They say… stuff. They make fun of my sister’s speech, and they… they won’t leave us alone.”

Mrs. Helm had pressed her lips together sympathetically. “That sounds like they’re being unkind. I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.”

“Can you do something?” Chloe had pushed. “Talk to them? Tell them to stop?”

“I can certainly bring them in and have a conversation,” Mrs. Helm said. “But sometimes, attention—positive or negative—can reinforce behavior. Have you tried ignoring them?”

Chloe had wanted to laugh. Or scream.

Ignoring them didn’t stop the phone from following her. It didn’t stop the videos from popping up on someone else’s feed, her face frozen mid-flinch, overlaid with stupid text like WHEN SHE THINKS SHE’S TOO GOOD FOR YOU BUT SHOPS AT GOODWILL.

“Maybe we can get you into a social skills group,” Mrs. Helm had offered. “Give you tools to respond differently.”

I don’t need tools, Chloe had thought. I need them to stop.

She’d gone to the principal, too. Principal Dunn had called in the boys, listened to their “side,” and then called Chloe back into his office.

“They say it was a joke,” he’d explained, palms up. “A misunderstanding. They didn’t realize you were uncomfortable.”

“They’ve done it for three months,” Chloe had snapped. “Every day. How do you misunderstand that?”

“I’ll speak to them again,” he’d said quickly. “But I have to be careful here, Chloe. Their parents are concerned about them being unfairly labeled. Social media can ruin a young man’s future.”

Ours too, she’d wanted to say. But she’d just nodded, feeling that familiar space open between her ribs, hollow and echoing.

At home, her mom had frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because you’re always tired,” Chloe had muttered, then immediately hated herself.

Her mom had closed her eyes in a wince. “We’ll talk to the school,” she’d promised.

“I already did.”

“Then we’ll talk again.” But she’d looked so worn out, still in her scrubs, hair pulled back in a fraying bun. “In the meantime, maybe change your route? Walk with more people?”

“There’s no other route,” Chloe had said. “Unless we walk three extra miles to go the long way around the industrial park. And nobody else walks our way. Not anymore.”

Her dad’s solution had been simpler. “You tell them if they touch you, I’ll come down there myself,” he’d growled over the sound of the TV. “See how funny they think they are then.”

Chloe appreciated the sentiment, but she didn’t say the part thinking itself again: It isn’t that simple.

Nothing about this was simple.

So they kept walking the same route. And the boys kept waiting.

---

The day everything changed started like any other bad day: too much homework, not enough sleep, a pop quiz in chemistry, a cafeteria lunch that might’ve been lasagna once, in a better life.

At three o’clock, the final bell rang. At three-o-eight, Chloe and Lily stepped into the late-October sun, the air just a tiny bit sharper than it had been the week before.

At three-ten, they saw the boys.

“Deep breaths,” Lily said, surprising her. Lately, Lily had started following meditation videos at night, sitting on the bedroom floor with her eyes closed, earbuds in. Chloe would pretend to read and sneak glances at her, wondering if any of it helped.

“Yeah,” Chloe said. “Deep breaths.”

They adjusted their backpacks and joined the flow of kids heading for the exits.

“Chloe!” The shout came from behind them, not from Trent this time but from someone else. A familiar someone.

Chloe turned and saw Megan, one of the girls from her art class, weaving through the crowd.

Megan was quiet, usually. She wore Doc Martens and band T-shirts and painted tiny constellations on the backs of her hands when she was bored.

Right now, she looked nervous.

“Hey,” Chloe said, slowing. “What’s up?”

Megan glanced past her toward the edge of the lot, then back. “Um. I just wanted to say… I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. About… those guys. I see them, you know.”

Chloe’s throat tightened. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Megan said. “But… I didn’t know what to do. And I know they’d come for me next if I—”

“Megan!” a voice called from the direction of the buses. One of her friends waved.

Megan winced. “I gotta go. Just… I made something.”

She dug in her bag and pulled out a small piece of cardstock. A hand-drawn poster, folded in half. On the front, watercolor letters read: YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

“It’s for this community thing,” she said, color blooming in her cheeks. “At the Rusty Mug. They’re starting some kind of safe walk thing? Or trying to. I dunno if it’s real yet. But they said to hand these out to people who might… you know.”

Chloe took the card. On the back, in neater handwriting, was a message:

SAFE ROUTES RIVERVIEW
Need someone to walk with you after school?
Tues–Fri, 3 p.m.–5 p.m.
Meet at the Rusty Mug.
Volunteers in yellow vests and “IRon Guardians MC” patches.

At the bottom was a phone number and a tiny logo of the winged gear.

Chloe blinked. “What is this?”

Megan shrugged. “Some biker guys came to my mom’s book club, okay? It was super weird. But they sounded… legit. And the coffee’s good. Just… maybe check it out?”

“MEGAN, LET’S GO!” her friend yelled again.

“Coming!” Megan called. To Chloe, she added, “I gotta go. Just… be careful, okay?”

She dashed off, leaving Chloe holding the card, the letters smudged at the edges where the paint hadn’t fully dried before folding.

Lily leaned over her shoulder. “Bikers again,” she said.

Chloe looked up. Across the street, she could see the Rusty Mug. Only one bike was parked out front today, a black Harley with matte finish. Its rider sat with his back to them, but she recognized the broad shoulders, the gray in his beard.

“Do you think it’s real?” Lily asked.

“Probably just some community service thing,” Chloe said. “They’ll help walk little kids from the elementary school or something. I don’t want…” She trailed off, staring at the winged gear.

I don’t want to need help, she thought. I don’t want to be the kind of person who has to ask a stranger to walk her home.

“Chloe,” Lily said softly. “Maybe we should try.”

Before Chloe could answer, a familiar, grating voice sliced through the noise.

“Well, well, well. Look who got fan mail.”

Trent plucked the card out of Chloe’s hand from behind, fingers quick as a pickpocket’s. She spun around, adrenaline spiking.

He held the card up and squinted at it. “Safe Routes Riverview,” he read, dragging out every syllable. “Need someone to walk with you after school?”

Mason leaned in. “Oh my God,” he wheezed. “That’s perfect. ‘Cause, like—” He put on a mock-baby voice. “‘Hi, I’m Chloe, and I’m a giant baby who can’t walk past teenagers without crying. Can you, like, escort me? Preferably big scary dudes in leather?’”

Kyle laughed, a deep, ugly sound.

“Give it back,” Chloe said.

Trent held the card just out of reach. “Oh, come on. This is cute.”

He lowered his voice into a growl. “You want big, bad bikers to protect you, princess?”

Chloe lunged. He pulled the card away, flicking it toward Mason at the last second. Mason caught it and immediately lifted his phone, framing the card and Chloe’s furious face in the same shot.

“Content,” he announced.

“Delete it,” Lily said. Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Food,” everyone called someone online, “content.” “Delete it?” Mason repeated, pretending to mull it over. “Mmm… no.”

He darted off toward the alley.

“Come on,” Trent said, clapping Chloe’s shoulder and guiding her after him. “Let’s talk about your new friends.”

Chloe dug her heels in. For the first time in months, rage burned hotter than fear.

“Stop touching me,” she said, loud enough that a few kids turned to look.

Trent’s hand tightened for a split second. His smile froze, then returned, brighter and more brittle. “Hey. Chill. We’re just playing around.”

“Let go,” Chloe repeated.

He did, slowly, holding up both hands like he was surrendering. “Whoa. Somebody’s got an attitude today.”

“Maybe she’s got backup now,” Kyle rumbled.

They all glanced toward the Rusty Mug.

Across the street, Bear was watching.

He’d seen the card. He’d seen Trent snatch it. He’d seen the way the girls’ bodies tensed.

He’d seen enough.

---

Later, when Chloe thought back on that afternoon, she’d replay the moment she could’ve turned right instead of left.

If they’d walked down Maple Street instead of cutting through the alley, maybe none of it would have happened. Maybe things would’ve gotten worse in some smaller, slower way, suffocating over months instead of cracking all at once.

But they didn’t turn. They followed habit into the shadow of the loading dock.

Mason waited halfway down the alley, phone out, card in hand. He’d propped it on the brick wall at eye level, framing it like a title card for his latest video.

“Okay,” he said cheerfully as they approached. “Scene one: Chloe begs for a biker bodyguard.”

“I’m not doing this,” Chloe said.

“Too bad we are,” Trent answered.

He moved fast, cutting in front of them, blocking the exit. Kyle shifted behind them, forming the same triangle they always did.

Lily’s breath sped up. Chloe could hear it.

“Here’s the deal,” Mason said. “You stand in front of the camera. You read the little card and tell the nice people of Riverview how scared you are every day walking home. Maybe cry a little, for the algorithm. Then we’ll let you walk away.”

“Or,” Trent added, “we’ll just keep walking with you. Every day. Maybe swing by your house, say hi to your mom. See if she needs anything. I know where she works, by the way. ER nurse, right? Crazy schedule. Must be so stressful.”

“Don’t talk about our mom,” Chloe snapped.

He smiled. “Why not? I feel like I know her already. I mean, I see you two more than she does, right?”

He took a step closer. Too close.

Something in Chloe snapped.

She shoved him. Hard.

It wasn’t much—she wasn’t that strong—but it caught him off-guard. He stumbled back, surprised, his sneakers scraping against spilled gravel.

Kyle made a noise like a startled bull. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“Shut up,” Trent snapped at him, regaining his balance.

His eyes had changed. The easy amusement was gone, replaced by something sharp and mean.

“Don’t touch me again,” he said.

“Then leave us alone,” Chloe shot back, heart pounding. “You film us, you follow us, you act like we’re your—your content, or props, or whatever. We’re done. Do you understand? We’re done.”

Mason chuckled. The sound was colder than usual. “You think you get to decide that?”

He glanced at Lily. “What about you, little Martin? You done too? ‘Cause I still got some solid blooper reels from last month—”

“Stop talking to her,” Chloe said.

Mason raised his hands. “Whoa, okay, okay.” He looked at Trent. “She’s feisty today.”

“Yeah,” Trent said softly.

He stepped in again. Before Chloe could move, he grabbed the strap of Lily’s backpack and yanked.

Lily cried out as he pulled her a step forward, nearly off her feet.

“Hey!” Chloe lunged for her sister. Kyle blocked her with one massive arm, palm on her shoulder, not shoving, just… holding her in place.

That was somehow worse.

“Relax,” Trent said, still holding Lily by the strap. “We’re just playing. Right, Lily?”

Her face had gone pale. “Let go,” she whispered.

He leaned in, nose almost touching hers. “Say ‘please.’”

“Let go,” she repeated, louder.

Chloe twisted out from under Kyle’s arm and shoved him again, using all her weight this time. He barely moved, but it startled him enough that his hand dropped.

She darted toward Lily, grabbing for her.

Trent jerked the backpack again.

The strap snapped.

For a split second, everything happened in slow motion. The strap tore loose; Lily’s momentum carried her forward. Her shoe caught on a crack in the pavement. She pitched sideways and slammed into the concrete, knee first, then hand, a sharp, sickening thud.

She lay there, eyes squeezed shut, breath knocked out of her.

The sound jolted the world back into speed.

“Lily!” Chloe dropped to her knees beside her. Blood was already welling up on Lily’s knee, scraping through the torn denim. Her palm had split open, a thin line of red across her skin.

“You okay?” Chloe asked, panic pitching her voice high.

Lily sucked in a ragged breath and nodded, but tears had already spilled over.

Behind them, Mason’s camera was still rolling.

“Oh, this is good,” he murmured. “This is really good.”

“You idiot,” Kyle muttered at Trent. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“Shut up,” Trent snapped. His face had gone white under his tan.

He took a step back. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“We’re not done—” Mason started.

“We’re done,” Trent said, voice harsh.

He turned toward the mouth of the alley—and froze.

At the other end, blocking the exit like a wall of black leather and metal, stood three bikers.

Bear in front. Roxy at his right shoulder. Mikey a half-step behind, his camera sunglasses already pushed up on his head, eyes narrowed.

Behind them, engines idled, a low growl rolling through the alley, bouncing off the bricks.

“Afternoon,” Bear said.

The word was mild. His expression was not.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Mason let out a laugh that broke halfway through. “Oh, wow. Perfect. This is perfect.” He raised his phone. “We got the full cast now. Everyone say hi to my subscribers.”

Mikey’s voice drifted from the back. “Is he filming?” He sounded almost delighted.

Bear didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the kids.

“Phone down,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Trent said, his voice trying for bravado and landing somewhere near shaky.

“I said,” Bear repeated, “put the phone down.”

Mason hesitated. “You… can’t tell me what to do,” he said. “This is a free country.”

“So I’ve heard.” Bear’s voice stayed low. “You also can’t assault people. Or stalk ‘em. Or record them without consent for the purpose of harassment. That’s all illegal too. Funny thing about free countries: they have laws.”

Lily shifted on the ground, wincing. Chloe helped her sit up, putting herself between her sister and the boys.

Roxy’s gaze darted to the blood on Lily’s knee and hand. Something in her expression hardened.

“Kid,” she said, addressing Lily, “you hurt bad? Anything feel broken?”

Lily shook her head, wiping her cheeks with the back of her wrist. “Just scrapes,” she whispered.

“Okay.” Roxy nodded once, like this was a battlefield triage and she’d gotten a decent report. She glanced back up at the boys. “Which one of you geniuses knocked her down?”

None of them answered.

Bear sighed. “We can do this easy,” he said. “Or we can do it hard. Easy looks like this.”

He held up his own phone.

“I call the cops. I show ‘em what we’ve been recording for the last week from across the street. My friend here—” He jerked his thumb at Mikey. “—sends them his dashcam footage. They come and have a nice, long conversation with you about harassment. Maybe they call your folks. Maybe the school gets involved. You get a warning, maybe a little probation, and that’s that. You get a chance to walk away smarter than you came in.”

He dropped his hand.

“Hard,” he continued, “looks like you mouth off. Or you try to run. Or you try to push it. And then I still call the cops, but we all have a much worse afternoon first. You follow?”

Kyle swallowed. “You cops?” he asked.

Bear let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “Hell, no.”

He stepped forward, into the alley’s shadow. “I’m the guy who’s been watching you scare these girls every day after school. I’m the guy who doesn’t like bullies. And I’m the guy who happens to have a lot of friends with cameras and nothing better to do at three in the afternoon.”

“Wh—what are you, like, a gang or something?” Mason asked.

Roxy snorted. “We’re a community organization with a very judgmental HOA,” she said. “We help fix bikes, raise money for vets, run blood drives. And we really, really hate it when little punks think they’re wolves just ‘cause nobody’s called ‘em on their crap yet.”

Mason’s phone wavered in his hand. “You… you can’t just threaten us,” he said.

“Nobody threatened you,” Bear replied. “I gave you options. Easy. Hard. Up to you.”

Chloe’s head was spinning. Part of her brain screamed that this was escalation, that things were spiraling completely out of control. Another part felt something like cold, sharp relief.

Someone else was finally seeing it. Really seeing it.

“Chloe,” Bear said, turning slightly toward her without taking his eyes off the boys. “That’s your name, right?”

She blinked. “Yeah.”

“You and your sister okay with me calling the cops?”

Trent stiffened. “You can’t do that without their consent,” he blurted out. “Right? Like, privacy or something?”

Bear’s eyebrows climbed. “You been watching Law & Order reruns, kid? That’s not how any of this works.”

“Chloe,” Roxy said gently. “We’re not gonna do anything you don’t want. But you should know—we’ve got plenty of video. Enough to make sure nobody calls this a ‘misunderstanding.’”

Chloe looked at Lily.

Her little sister’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t want them to keep doing this,” Lily whispered.

Chloe felt something steady settle in her chest.

“Call them,” she said.

Bear nodded once. “Easy it is.”

He tapped his screen.

“Oh, come on,” Trent burst out. “This is ridiculous. We didn’t hurt anybody. She fell. It was an accident.”

Kyle nodded quickly. “Yeah. And—and they shoved us first. That guy’s, like, biased or whatever. He’s—he’s targeting us.”

“Absolutely,” Mason added, seizing on the angle. “They hate us. They think we’re, like, privileged jocks or something. It’s discrimination. We’ll get lawyers, man. My dad—”

“Is on the school board,” Bear finished. “I know. I’ve lived here longer than you’ve been alive. I know who signs the checks for the jerseys.” He shrugged. “But the school board doesn’t run the police department. And your dad doesn’t run the internet.”

Mason frowned. “What does that—”

“’Cause here’s the other thing,” Bear continued, voice almost conversational. “I got buddies who ride in three different towns, and half of ‘em got channels online. Big ones. People eat this stuff up. ‘Local Heroes Stop Teen Bullies.’ ‘Schoolgirls Harassed Every Day Until Bikers Step In.’” He rolled the words around like he was tasting them. “I can see the thumbnails now. Your faces, front and center.”

Mason visibly paled.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

Bear’s eyes cooled. “I don’t want to. That’s the truth. I’d like to handle this quiet. You get your scare, girls get their peace, we all move on. But if anyone—and I mean anyone—tries to sweep this under a rug? If a principal says ‘boys will be boys,’ or your old man tries to call in favors? Then I got no problem making it loud.”

Mikey grinned from the back. “He’s really good at making things loud,” he stage-whispered.

Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Growing closer.

Trent’s bravado finally started to crack. “Look, man,” he said, voice dropping. “We didn’t— we were just messing around. Everyone messes around.”

“Everyone,” Bear said, “does not herd girls into alleys and film their fear. That’s not messing around. That’s cruelty. And somebody should’ve told you that a long time ago.”

The patrol car pulled up at the alley’s mouth, lights flashing silently.

Bear stepped back, hands visible. “Afternoon, officers,” he said when they emerged.

The next thirty minutes blurred.

The cops—Officer Delgado and Officer Haines, according to their name tags—took statements. They looked at Lily’s scraped knee, at the torn backpack strap, at the card on the wall. They watched the footage on Bear’s phone. Then Mikey’s dashcam.

They watched Mason’s videos too, once Bear mentioned they might want to check a certain public account.

Trent tried to talk big at first, but the more the officers saw, the quieter he got.

At one point, Principal Dunn came hurrying down the sidewalk, tie askew. Someone must’ve called the school.

“What is going on here?” he demanded, eyes darting between the kids and the bikers, settling suspiciously long on the leather vests.

“Just a little after-school program,” Roxy said sweetly.

Officer Delgado cut in before things could get tense. “We’ve got multiple complaints and a lot of video, Principal Dunn,” she said. “Looks like your students here have been engaging in ongoing harassment and intimidation. We’re going to be filing a report and contacting their parents.”

Dunn opened and closed his mouth. “Harassment?” he echoed weakly. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. These boys are good kids. They’re athletes. Leaders.”

“Leaders,” Roxy muttered under her breath. “Hell of a job they’re doing.”

Delgado didn’t smile. “This isn’t a misunderstanding, sir,” she said. “We’ve got them on video.”

Dunn’s gaze flicked to Bear, then to Chloe. For a heartbeat, she saw it—the calculus behind his eyes. Noise. Reputation. Donors. Lawsuits.

Then he seemed to remember the cops were watching him too.

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “We take bullying very seriously. I’ll cooperate fully.”

He looked at Chloe, his expression almost pleading. “We could have handled this internally, you know. There was no need to involve—”

“There was,” Bear said evenly. “You had chances. You didn’t take ‘em.”

Dunn flushed.

The officers gathered everyone’s contact information. They told Chloe and Lily their parents would be notified, that they might be asked to make a statement at the station later. They told Trent, Kyle, and Mason they were being released into school custody for now, pending a full report.

“Am I under arrest?” Trent asked, voice small.

“Not today,” Delgado said. “But I’d recommend you start thinking hard about your choices. You’re almost eighteen. The world stops calling it ‘boys being boys’ real quick after that.”

When it was finally over and the squad car rolled away, the alley felt strangely quiet.

Chloe realized her hands were shaking.

“You okay?” Roxy asked.

Chloe nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair,” Bear said.

Lily stood carefully, testing her weight on her scraped leg. “Thank you,” she said, voice hoarse.

“Don’t thank us yet.” Bear tipped his chin toward the Rusty Mug. “You girls got a minute?”

Chloe stiffened. “We should get home,” she said automatically.

“You should,” Bear agreed. “But you should also know what happens next. And I’m guessing nobody’s given you a clear picture of that yet.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Chloe glanced at Lily.

“It’s a public café,” Roxy added. “Bright lights, barista who knows my mom, a lady with a baby who comes in at four every day and smells like strawberry shampoo. Safest place on this block. I promise.”

Lily, of all people, nodded. “I kinda… want to know?” she said. “What happens next, I mean.”

Chloe exhaled slowly. “Okay,” she said. “Just for a little bit.”

---

The Rusty Mug smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and something warm baking in the back. Its walls were crowded with mismatched frames: black-and-white photos of the town fifty years ago, paintings from local artists, Polaroids of regulars making goofy faces.

The girls sat at a corner table, bandages fresh on Lily’s knee and hand courtesy of Roxy’s surprisingly well-stocked first aid kit. A latte steamed in front of Chloe; a hot chocolate with a mountain of whipped cream sat in front of Lily.

“You don’t have to pay us back,” D’Angelo had said when Chloe had reached for her wallet. “Consider it my ‘thanks for not letting this crap keep happening on my doorstep’ discount.”

Bear sat across from them, his large hands wrapped around a ceramic mug. Up close, he looked older than he had from across the street. Early fifties, maybe. Lines at the corners of his eyes. A faded tattoo on his forearm of an eagle perched on a wrench.

Roxy leaned against the wall nearby, legs crossed at the ankle, sipping her own drink. Mikey perched on a barstool, spinning slowly like he couldn’t sit completely still.

“You girls did good,” Bear said, after a long silence.

Chloe blinked. “We… fell down,” she said.

“You stood up,” he corrected. “You said you were done. You said ‘call the cops.’ A lot of people never get that far.”

“They’re going to hate us more now,” Lily said quietly, staring at the whipped cream. “Everyone’s going to say we… snitched.”

“‘Snitched,’” Roxy repeated, rolling her eyes. “What is this, a prison yard? You didn’t snitch. You told the truth about people doing harm. That’s what grown-ups are supposed to do. They just forget.”

“But they’re popular,” Chloe said. “They’ll spin it. Make us look crazy.”

“Maybe,” Bear said. “Maybe not. But here’s the difference.” He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, then turned it to show them.

It was a video. From that afternoon. From across the street, zoomed in but clear. It showed the three boys blocking the alley, Mason’s phone out, Trent grabbing Lily’s strap, the fall.

He swiped to another clip: a previous day. The boys surrounding them again, laughing. Lily’s face pinched. Chloe’s shoulders hunched.

“We got a week’s worth of this,” he said. “And your school counsellor and your principal just got copies emailed to them. So did the police department and an assistant DA I happen to know from the block party last summer.” He shrugged. “Small town. Word travels.”

Chloe didn’t know whether to feel grateful or terrified. “So… what happens now?”

“Now the cops file their report,” Bear said. “They talk to your parents. They decide what charges, if any, make sense. Maybe it’s just a formal warning. Maybe it’s more. I’m not them; I can’t say. But it won’t be nothing.”

“They’ll say you edited it,” Lily said. “Or that we provoked them. Or—”

“Sweetheart,” Roxy cut in. “You’re not on trial. They are. Don’t do their job for them.”

Lily ducked her head.

“What about… online?” Chloe asked.

Bear’s expression shifted. “That’s where you got the most hurt, huh?” he asked gently. “The videos?”

Chloe nodded.

“Good news there,” Mikey piped up, spinning off his stool and dropping into the empty seat next to Roxy. “Our boy Mason? He’s not as smart as he thinks. All his stuff is public. We got screenshots and timestamps of every post that mentions you two. We gave ‘em to the cops already.”

“And if he tries to delete them,” Roxy added, “we still have the receipts. And so will a few people I know who are very, very good at flagging content.”

“Internet never forgets,” Mikey said cheerfully. “Sometimes that sucks. Sometimes it’s useful.”

Chloe took a sip of her latte and tried to steady her breathing. A thought occurred to her, cold and sharp.

“What if… everyone finds out you helped us?” she asked. “Won’t that cause problems? With the school? Or… I don’t know. People always talk about bikers like they’re—”

“Dangerous,” Bear supplied.

She winced. “Sorry. I just—”

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “On paper, we’re intimidating as hell. That’s kind of the point.” He smiled faintly. “We started Safe Routes because of that. Figured, if the world’s gonna be scared of us anyway, we might as well aim the fear in a better direction.”

Roxy tossed a crumpled napkin at him. “You stole that line from my Facebook post,” she said.

“Damn right I did. It was a good line.”

“Wait,” Lily said. “Safe Routes… that’s real? It’s… you guys?”

“Us and some other folks,” Bear said. “Parents, teachers who aren’t cowards, the lady who runs the yoga studio down the street, believe it or not. We volunteered to be extra eyes. Sometimes extra… presence.”

He jerked his chin toward the café window, where the bikes were visible, parked and gleaming in the weak autumn sun.

“The idea’s simple,” he said. “Nobody should be scared to walk home from school. So if you want a buddy? You text that number on the card. Or you swing by here. Someone walks with you. Could be me, could be Roxy, could be D’Angelo’s cousin Tony in his neon running shoes. But you won’t walk alone.”

Chloe stared at him. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you care?”

Bear’s gaze drifted to the photo wall. His eyes landed on a black-and-white picture of a much younger version of himself, hair darker, arm around a skinny boy in a hoodie.

“Because I knew a kid once,” he said slowly, “who had to walk past a pack of wolves every day. He was small. Didn’t make eye contact. Did everything they told him he was supposed to do to stay invisible.”

He took a breath.

“Didn’t matter. They saw him anyway. Tore him apart one insult at a time. One day, those insults turned into fists. He went home with a broken arm and a story about falling off his bike. Nobody asked too many questions.”

He rubbed a thumb along the rim of his mug.

“He made it out,” Bear added. “Eventually. Joined the Army. Got big. Got good at fighting. But there’s a part of him that never forgot what it felt like to walk that gauntlet alone. So when he sees it again? When he sees people laughing while someone else shrinks into themselves… he remembers.”

He looked back at them.

“And he doesn’t like it,” he finished. “Not one bit.”

Silence settled over the table. The espresso machine hissed in the background. Someone dropped a spoon and muttered an apology.

“Was that… you?” Lily asked quietly.

Bear smiled without showing his teeth. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Lily’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“So what now?” Chloe asked. “We just… text you every day?”

“You do what feels right,” Bear said. “You want us to walk with you for a while, we’ll walk. You want to go it alone but know we’re watching from here, we can do that too. You want us to stay out of it entirely from now on? We’ll respect that, though I’ll be honest—I’m still gonna keep my eyes open.”

He tapped the card on the table. “Safe Routes isn’t supposed to be a leash. It’s a net. You fall, it catches you.”

Chloe thought of all the adults who’d shrugged. Who’d said it sounded “unfortunate” or “complicated.” Of all the days she’d walked with her shoulders hunched, waiting for the next comment, the next shove, the next camera in her face.

She thought of Lily on the ground, blood on the concrete.

Then she thought of the way the alley had felt when the bikes pulled up. The way Trent’s smile had cracked.

“I think…” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness in her voice, “for now, we’d like someone to walk with us.”

Lily nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Please.”

Bear’s smile warmed. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

---

The next afternoon, the buzz started before last period.

“Did you see what happened to Trent yesterday?”

“My mom said the cops were at the school.”

“I heard he’s suspended.”

“Nah, bro, my cousin said he’s on probation or something. Like, legal probation.”

“They were filming those girls, right? I saw a clip. My friend’s older brother knows some biker dude who posted it. ‘Teen bullies get owned.’ It’s already at, like, fifty thousand views.”

Chloe walked through the hallways feeling like she’d slipped into an alternate universe. People didn’t look right through her anymore. They glanced, then looked away quickly. Some looked curious. Some looked guilty.

Nobody looked amused.

At her locker, Megan appeared at her elbow.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” Chloe spun her combination, hands only shaking a little.

“I saw the video,” Megan whispered. “My cousin sent it from another town. I didn’t even know it was you until I saw your backpack.”

Chloe’s stomach dropped. “Is it… bad?” she asked.

“It’s… rough,” Megan admitted. “Seeing you guys like that. But the comments are all on your side.” She lowered her voice. “Like, people are pissed at them. Not you.”

Chloe’s brain couldn’t quite wrap around the idea. “How… many… people have seen it?”

Megan winced. “Uh… a lot.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Chloe muttered.

“It means they can’t pretend it didn’t happen,” Megan said. “They can’t just… gaslight everyone. It’s out there.”

“And it means we’re going to be ‘those girls’ forever,” Chloe replied. “‘Those girls’ who needed biker bodyguards to walk home.”

Megan considered that. “Maybe,” she said finally. “Or maybe you’ll be ‘those girls’ who didn’t back down. I mean, if I were you, I’d be kind of proud.”

Chloe snorted. “I was terrified.”

“Yeah, that’s the coolest part,” Megan said. “You were terrified, and you still didn’t back down.”

She glanced at the clock. “You still walking home the usual way today?”

“Yeah,” Chloe said. “Why?”

Megan shifted her weight. “I was thinking… maybe I’d walk with you? If that’s okay? Safety in numbers, right? Plus, I kind of want to see the bikers up close. My mom says they’re very polite.”

Chloe stared at her. “You’re serious?”

“Dead,” Megan said.

“Am I the only one who thinks this is insane?” Chloe asked the locker door. “Just… accepting rides from random people in leather?”

“They’re not rides,” Megan corrected. “They’re escorts. Totally different vibe.”

Despite herself, Chloe laughed.

“Fine,” she said. “You can walk with us. But if my mom finds out I dragged you into this, she’s going to kill me.”

“My mom’s the one who made me that card,” Megan said. “She’ll probably bake them cookies.”

---

At three-fifteen, Chloe, Lily, and Megan stepped out of Riverbend High together.

The day felt different. The air tasted… clearer.

There were no boys waiting at the edge of the lot this time. No letterman jackets slung like trophies. No phones held aloft like weapons.

Instead, at the crosswalk by the alley, there were two figures in yellow vests over black leather.

Roxy and Mikey.

Their vests had reflective stripes and a logo on the back: the winged gear, smaller now, printed over the words SAFE ROUTES VOLUNTEER.

Mikey held a little sign shaped like a stop paddle that read WALK SAFE instead.

Roxy grinned when she saw them. “Hey, Martin sisters. And friend.”

“Megan,” Megan said. “My mom says hi. And also, she baked these.”

She held up a Tupperware container filled with cookies.

“You just became my favorite person,” Mikey announced, taking the container reverently.

Other kids were staring now. Some whispered. A few peeled off and joined the cluster near the crosswalk, eyes darting between the school and the bikers.

“Here’s how this works,” Roxy said, pitching her voice so it carried. “You want us to walk with you, you hang with us. You want to go solo, you go; we stay put. We’re not your parents or your hall monitors. We’re just… backup.”

A girl Chloe recognized from her biology class raised her hand hesitantly. “Um,” she said, “what if… like… we don’t want anyone to see us walking with bikers?”

“Then we hang back,” Roxy said easily. “Or we take a different route. Or we pretend we’re just crossing at the same time. We’re very flexible.”

A boy with a skateboard tucked under his arm frowned. “What if those guys from yesterday come back?” he asked.

Mikey’s smile thinned. “Then we say hi,” he said. “And maybe we have a chat about respect.”

“Also,” Roxy added, “they’re on thin ice with the law right now. Their lawyer dads would be very annoyed if they screwed up again this fast. Odds are, you won’t see them for a bit.”

“You say ‘thin ice’ like you think it’s going to break,” Megan murmured to Chloe.

“That’s the idea,” Chloe murmured back.

They crossed together: three schoolgirls, two bikers in vests, a skater kid, and a girl Chloe vaguely knew from middle school who’d fallen into step silently, hands deep in her pockets.

Across the street, Bear watched from the Rusty Mug’s doorway, arms folded.

Chloe met his gaze for half a second and nodded.

He nodded back.

---

The fallout wasn’t instant. Real life never moved with the clean rhythm of a movie montage.

The boys’ parents hired lawyers. Of course they did.

There were meetings. Long ones. At the school, at the police station, at some office downtown where the carpet was too soft and the coffee too bitter.

Chloe and Lily sat in chairs outside conference rooms while muffled voices argued behind closed doors. Their parents took turns pacing the hallway, faces tight.

Sometimes they went in too, to give statements, to answer questions. Every time, Chloe’s stomach clenched like she was the one on trial.

She learned phrases she’d never wanted to know. “Pattern of behavior.” “Digital harassment.” “Juvenile record.”

In the end, the boys didn’t go to jail. They were minors, and this was their “first official offense,” as one lawyer kept reminding everyone. But they didn’t walk away clean either.

They got probation. Mandatory counseling. Community service attached to Safe Routes Riverview, of all things—though Bear made it very clear they wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the actual school escort program.

“They can pick up trash from the side of the highway,” he told the coordinator. “Far from the kids.”

The school suspended them for a month. The football team lost their star quarterback for the rest of the season. There were rumors about scholarships evaporating, about college scouts crossing names off lists.

For the first time since this started, the consequences fell on someone other than the girls.

People talked. They always did.

Some said it was too harsh. That boys would be boys and shouldn’t have their futures ruined over “a joke.”

Others said it wasn’t harsh enough. That if the bikers hadn’t intervened, it could’ve gotten a lot worse than scraped knees and crappy viral clips.

Most of the kids at school fell somewhere in the middle, trying to figure out what this meant for them. For their own group chats and videos and casual cruelties.

Every time a phone came out in the hallway now, someone inevitably joked, “Careful, man, the bikers might be watching.”

The thing was… they kind of were.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a Big Brother, cameras-on-every-corner way. Just… present.

There was always someone in a yellow vest outside the Rusty Mug at three. Sometimes it was Bear. Sometimes it was Roxy, or Mikey, or Tony in his neon shoes. Sometimes it was D’Angelo’s wife, her baby strapped to her chest in a carrier decorated with tiny dinosaurs.

They walked kids home. Not just girls—boys too. Kids who were small, or quiet, or just tired of looking over their shoulders.

Safe Routes got a website. A kid in the computer club designed it for extra credit. Someone made flyers. Someone else started a fundraiser for reflective vests.

The local paper ran a story: COMMUNITY BIKERS STEP IN AS SCHOOL BULLYING ESCORT PROGRAM GROWS.

Bear rolled his eyes at the headline but clipped it out anyway and stuck it on the Rusty Mug’s wall.

The online video kept circulating. It petered out after a while, replaced by the next thing. But in Riverview, people remembered.

At first, Chloe hated that. Hated the way strangers looked at her in the grocery store like they knew her.

Then, slowly, it started to feel like something else.

Like a warning label pinned to the town: We see you now. We’re paying attention.

---

Two months after the alley, on a gray Wednesday with rain threatening, Chloe walked into the Rusty Mug alone.

The bell over the door jingled. Warmth and the smell of coffee wrapped around her.

“Hey, kid,” Bear called from behind the counter. “You flying solo today?”

“Lily’s at drama club,” Chloe said. “Megan’s got SAT prep. I’m heading straight home after this.”

“Living dangerously, I see.”

She smiled a little. The walk home didn’t scare her the way it used to. The alley didn’t feel like a trap anymore. Not with a yellow-vested volunteer two blocks down, not with more kids walking together these days instead of peeling off into lonely routes.

But she still liked stopping here. Liked the way her shoulders relaxed when she stepped inside.

“Got your usual,” D’Angelo said, sliding a latte across the counter before she could even order. “Extra cinnamon. On the house.”

“You really don’t have to keep doing that,” she said.

“Sure I do,” he replied. “It reminds me I live in a town where people give a damn. Worth a latte a day.”

She carried her drink to the corner table where she’d sat that first afternoon. The one where her hands had shaken.

They didn’t shake now.

She pulled out her sketchbook. Lately, when her brain felt crowded, drawing helped clear it. Today, the page filled with the curve of a motorcycle fender, the glint of chrome, the shape of a winged gear.

“Not bad,” Roxy said, appearing over her shoulder.

Chloe nearly jumped. “Do you guys ever walk like normal people?” she asked. “You’re always just… there.”

“Occupational hazard,” Roxy said with a grin. “You’re getting the angles right. You should come by the garage sometime. Draw ‘em up close.”

“Maybe,” Chloe said. “If I can talk my dad into letting me hang out with bikers at a garage.”

“Tell him there’s always a paramedic on-site,” Roxy said. “We’re a very safety-oriented gang. Sorry. Community organization.”

Her tone was light, but Chloe heard the thread of seriousness underneath. They were dangerous. They were safe. They were both.

“Hey,” Chloe said, before she could overthink it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you ever worry that… the kids will depend on you too much? Like, what happens when we leave town? Or if you guys… move? Or just… can’t be here?”

Roxy rubbed her chin. “That’s a big question for a Wednesday,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Nah. It’s a good one.” She pulled out the chair across from her and sat. “We talk about that, actually. A lot. Bear worries about it.”

“Of course he does,” Chloe said.

“Of course he does,” Roxy echoed, smiling. “Here’s how I see it, though. You know those bike lanes they paint on the road?”

“Yeah.”

“Think of Safe Routes like that. We’re the cones and paint. We’re there to make a path visible. To say, ‘Hey, here’s an option that’s safer than the shoulder.’ But you’re the ones pedaling. Eventually, maybe you don’t need the cones. Maybe the cars learn to move over on their own. Maybe the culture shifts enough that people see a kid walking alone and think, ‘I should watch out for them,’ instead of, ‘Not my problem.’”

She shrugged. “Or maybe we stick around long enough that some of you grow up and take over. Start your own versions.”

“You want us to become bikers?” Chloe asked, amused.

“I want you to become people who stand between bullies and their targets,” Roxy said simply. “Whether you do that on a motorcycle, at a law firm, in a classroom, whatever. World’s got plenty of side streets. It needs more crossing guards.”

Chloe absorbed that quietly.

Outside, the sky finally broke. Rain spattered the café window, streaking down in little rivers.

“You know what the funniest thing is?” she said after a minute.

“What?”

“Trent and them… they thought they were the ones who got to decide the story. They filmed us so they could control how people saw us. Make us small. Make themselves big.”

“And?” Roxy asked.

“And now…” Chloe flipped her sketchbook to another page. There, in bold marker strokes, she’d written a phrase that had appeared in more than one article and video caption over the last two months:

BULLIES HARASSED SCHOOLGIRLS EVERY DAY AFTER SCHOOL — UNTIL THE BIKERS FOUND THEM.

She’d drawn it like a movie poster title, curved over silhouettes: two girls, three bikes behind them, engines idling.

“Now that’s the story,” she said. “And they don’t get to change it.”

Roxy smiled slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s the thing about cameras. Sometimes they catch you being exactly who you really are.”

She tapped the title with one finger. “Who do you think you are in this?” she asked. “Victims? Or main characters?”

Chloe looked at the silhouettes. At the girls standing in the foreground, shoulders squared.

“Both,” she said. “For a while. But… less of the first one every day.”

“Good,” Roxy said, standing. “That’s how it should be.”

As she walked back toward the counter, Bear called to her. “Rain’s picking up,” he said. “We doing a wet run today?”

“Yep,” she said. “Get your poncho, old man.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I ain’t that old,” but he grabbed his vest and helmet.

Chloe watched them go. The bikers. The coffee shop owner. The random kid who’d volunteered to hold the WALK SAFE sign in the rain.

Her net.

When her latte was gone and the rain had softened to a mist, she packed up her sketchbook and slung her backpack over her shoulder.

Outside, the street shone slick and dark. The yellow vests glowed under the streetlights. A cluster of kids waited at the curb, hoods up, laughter steaming in the cool air.

Chloe stepped out into the evening and joined them.

The engines started up, low and steady.

They walked together into the fading day.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t count the steps to get home.

She just walked.

---

THE END