Gabriel stared at the black card all day.
He had tucked it into his wallet before class started, but it burned in his mind like a secret too big for one pocket. It was just a card—no name, no address, just a number and two gears. But somehow it felt heavier than anything in his bag.
He didn't tell anyone. Not his classmates. Not the guidance counselor. And definitely not his father, who was too busy sleeping through life to notice much anyway.
After school, he walked out slowly—no rush. But his hands were sweating.
He stood beside his bike, pretending to tie his shoelace. His heart was hammering.
"What if this is a scam?""What if he's a kidnapper?""What if it's all in my head?"
Then again, what if it wasn't?
The address wasn't printed on the card—but somehow, Gabriel knew where to go.A street name flashed in his head the moment he looked at the gears. It didn't make sense, but neither did the ticking sound in his bike or the way it balanced itself when he nearly crashed last week.
He pedaled through unfamiliar streets, past sari-sari stores and parked tricycles, until he found it: Lot 5, Camias Compound.A tall rusty gate, barely standing. Behind it, an old warehouse, half-covered in vines.
He stopped in front, breathing hard.
The gate opened on its own. Not dramatically—just a creak, as if it had been waiting.
Inside, the warehouse looked abandoned. Dust. Broken crates. A dented vending machine. But right in the center, under a single flickering lightbulb, stood the man with the cane.
No introduction. No small talk.
"You came," he said.
Gabriel tightened his grip on his bike. "What is this place?"
"Used to be something. Now it's nothing. Just like you."The man chuckled. "At least, that's what they think."
Gabriel frowned. "I didn't come here for insults."
The man nodded, amused. "Good. You came for answers."
He pointed to a tarp in the corner. Gabriel walked over and pulled it back.
Underneath was a motorcycle. But not just any motorcycle.
It was old—ancient even—but sleek. Its body was covered in strange marks, like etched patterns or forgotten symbols. The tires were worn but thick. The seat was wrapped in deep brown leather, cracked and faded with time.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" the man said.
"Who owns this?" Gabriel asked.
"You do."
Gabriel scoffed. "You think I can afford something like this?"
"No. But your bike thinks you can."
That made Gabriel pause.
"You ever wonder why your bicycle doesn't act like other bikes?" the man continued. "Why it doesn't break even though it's been through hell? Why it hums? Balances? Pulls at the right second?"
Gabriel didn't answer. He didn't have to.
The man walked closer. His cane clicked against the floor.
"There's something inside that bike of yours. A remnant. A core. Something that belonged to a machine like this." He tapped the motorcycle. "I built that one myself. A long time ago."
Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The man didn't blink.
"People used to call me Reyes. In my day, I was the fastest racer in Central Luzon. But that was a long time ago. Accidents… change people."
Gabriel felt his stomach twist. Reyes? That name sounded familiar. His father used to curse it during his drunken rants.
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because you're fast," Reyes said. "And you don't even know it. You ride like the wind. And that's not something you learn. That's something you're born with."
Gabriel stayed quiet.
Reyes pointed to the motorcycle again. "Fix it. Ride it. If you can handle it, I'll tell you the rest."
Gabriel looked at the machine again. It was beautiful in its own broken way—like his bike, but bigger, louder, heavier. Real.
He reached for the handlebar.
The moment he touched it, the motorcycle hummed. Just like his bicycle.
His breath caught.
"See?" Reyes said quietly. "It recognizes you."
Gabriel stepped back.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered.
"Most real things don't," Reyes replied. "Come back tomorrow. We start with repairs. You're not ready to ride it yet. But soon."
Gabriel looked at him one last time. "Why are you helping me?"
Reyes smiled—not kindly, but with something else. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.
"Because someone once helped me when I was a broken kid on two wheels. And I messed it all up. I want to try again."
Gabriel left the warehouse with a hundred questions and no answers.
But one thing was clear:His life was no longer running in circles.It was shifting gears.