The biker moved.
Barely. Weakly. But he moved.
His hand twitched against the asphalt, fingers curling like he was reaching for something invisible, muscles struggling to obey his fading consciousness. His eyelids fluttered. A long, painful breath escaped his chest.
“Princess…” he rasped, the word barely audible.
Her whole body stilled. Her grip tightened. She lifted her face again, relief and fear tangling across it.
“Uncle Cole,” she whispered. “I’m here. I didn’t let go.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
The officers exchanged looks.
And Officer Price — trained to read details most people overlook — felt a chill slide down his spine.
This wasn’t random.
This wasn’t coincidence.
This was something rooted in a history nobody else understood.
“Where are her parents?” Officer Price called out, scanning faces.
