The night wind brushed against his helmet.
The city reflected on his visor, turning into blurred lines of light—like a moving painting that never stopped. Streetlights, neon signs, and towering silhouettes of buildings passed him by, as if the world didn't care about anyone crossing through it.
The speedometer needle slowly crept to the right.
The motorcycle was not a racing bike.
Not an expensive one either.
Just a machine that had been forced to run too many times.
On the back seat, a pizza box was tightly strapped. The ropes were slightly worn, yet still strong enough to hold a load that was never truly heavy—only heavy enough to remind him that life was never really light.
This was not a race.
But for Reza, it always felt like one.
The traffic light turned red.
He stopped his bike without crossing the pedestrian line. His hands stayed ready on the handlebars, fingers lightly gripping the throttle. His eyes focused on the road ahead—not on the traffic light, not on other vehicles, but on the empty space waiting to be crossed.
He took a quiet breath.
Green light.
He twisted the throttle and launched forward.
Between slow-moving cars, he slipped through gaps no one else seemed to notice. The tires kissed the asphalt with a soft sound, his body leaning slightly with the road's flow. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
Chasing time.
At least, that was the only thing that made him feel alive.
A few minutes earlier…
"Hey, this is the last order. After this, we close."
A man wearing a pizza shop apron spoke while carrying several boxes. His voice sounded casual, but tired.
Reza turned his head. "Where do I deliver this?"
"Block 12. They want it there within twenty minutes."
Reza took the pizza box. "Alright. I'll get it there as fast as I can."
He walked toward his motorcycle and strapped the box tightly. His hands moved with practiced precision, as if he had done the same thing hundreds of times before.
His coworker smiled.
"You know… most people would complain about delivering orders this late at night."
Reza checked the straps once more.
"I just need to do it. That's all."
His answer was short. Without any special meaning.
And somehow,
it sounded like a life principle.
Back on the road.
The motorcycle kept moving, cutting through the night with an unfriendly roar. The engine's sound bounced off the walls of buildings, then vanished with the wind. The green light he had passed earlier was now far behind him.
A curve appeared ahead.
He didn't slow down.
Reza pressed the front and rear brakes in a balanced rhythm, letting the rear wheel slide slightly before turning. His body followed the curve naturally—without fear, without panic.
As if the motorcycle were a part of him.
Block 12.
Reza stepped off the bike without showing fatigue. A thin layer of sweat clung to his forehead, but his face remained calm. He pressed the doorbell.
Once.
Twice.
The door opened.
A fat man stood there.
"Ah, pizza? That was fast. Truly the best pizza in the city."
Reza handed the box with a faint smile. "Customer satisfaction is our priority."
The man set the pizza down for a moment, pulled out his wallet, and started counting money.
"This is for the pizza. And this is your tip."
"Thank you, sir. Enjoy your meal."
Reza took the money and turned back toward his motorcycle.
He started the engine.
And accelerated once again—
toward home.
The motorcycle stopped in front of an old building.
A cheap apartment.
Not tall.
Not grand.
But enough to survive.
Reza turned off the engine and removed his helmet. The city's noise slowly faded, replaced by the silence only narrow hallways of old buildings could offer.
He climbed the stairs slowly, passing a dimly lit corridor. His steps were unhurried, as if he were trying to delay something he could never avoid.
Reza opened the door quietly. He was afraid of disturbing the peace inside.
"You're home? Cough…"
A weak voice followed by coughing came from within.
A middle-aged woman sat on the sofa.
Her face was pale.
Her body looked thinner than before.
Reza nodded.
"Tired?" his mother asked.
Reza placed his helmet down. "Just the usual."
She smiled faintly.
In that small room, there were no trophies.
No expensive motorcycles.
No grand dreams.
Only two people.
Two people trying to survive tomorrow.
Reza stared at his hands. The vibration of the motorcycle still lingered at his fingertips. The roar of the engine still echoed in his mind, as if it had never truly stopped.
Outside, the city was still moving.
Lights were still glowing.
Cars were still racing forward.
People were still chasing something they never fully understood.
And within Reza, something had not yet faded.
Something he didn't yet understand.
Something that one day
would carry him far away from this place.