Biker Pulled My Attacker Off Me Then Stayed All Night To Make Sure I Was Okay!

“You’re safe,” he said, his voice low and steady. “He’s gone.”

He called the police, then hospital security. He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders when he saw I couldn’t stop trembling. It smelled like leather and motor oil—and something oddly comforting.

His name was Marcus. I learned that while the police took our statements. He was in his mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, with hands scarred and rough. A leather vest covered in patches from places I didn’t recognize. He looked like the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid.

But his eyes were gentle. And he didn’t leave.

He stayed while the officers asked their questions. Stayed while security walked the garage. Stayed through the hospital exam I didn’t even know I’d need until they told me. Stayed through the long, hollow hours when everything felt unreal.

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