The sun was setting behind the mountain ridge, bleeding orange across the sky like the paint job on Arman's KTM RC 390.
He zipped up his KTM leather jacket, the one he'd bought after his first paycheck—sleek black with burnt orange accents, molded perfectly to his shape.
It wasn’t just gear.
It was armor.
Memory.
Identity.
Every scuff on it told a story.
A slide in the Ghats.
A rain ride to nowhere.
That midnight chase with his best friend Zaid.
But today was different.
It was his last ride.
The village road was narrow, coiled like a serpent between cliffs and tea plantations.
Arman’s gloves creaked as he tightened his grip.
He wasn’t escaping.
He was delivering.
Inside the saddlebag was a USB drive.
Footage. Evidence. Names.
A mining company had poisoned the valley’s water.
No one dared speak.
Except Arman.
A truck thundered behind him.
Too fast.
Too close.
Paid muscle, probably.
They knew.
He leaned into a curve, tires shrieking, jacket catching wind like a wing.
Bullets sparked off rocks to his right.
He ducked low.
No time to think—only ride.
One last switchback and the village tower came into view.
The safe drop.
He skidded to a stop, tossed the drive to the man waiting by the well.
“No names,” Arman said, breathless.
The man nodded.
Then disappeared.
Arman turned back, engine humming steady.
The jacket clung to him like a second skin.
He faced the rising headlights without fear.
Whatever happened next, the story was already out.
And the KTM jacket had done its job.
One last ride.
But never forgotten.
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