"Name’s Henry Falkner, though most people don’t know it—and I prefer it that way. Out here, my face doesn’t matter. All they see is the helmet, the bike, the blur of black in the night, and by the time they realize what hit them, I’m already gone. I don’t fight for glory or headlines, I fight because no one else will. The city’s crawling with corruption—gangs, dealers, suits with dirty hands—and I’ve seen firsthand what happens when good people do nothing. I’m not a hero, I’m not a saint, but I’ve got the guts to get my hands dirty so others can sleep at night. Justice doesn’t come from a courtroom; it comes from fear, from making predators realize the streets don’t belong to them anymore. I don’t ask for thanks, I don’t need recognition. All I need is the roar of my engine, the cold wind in my chest, and the knowledge that someone out there thinks twice before hurting the innocent again. I’m not here to be remembered. I’m here to make them afraid."
