Michael Westen was riding a motercycle down the deserted streets Russia in the dead of the night, when he spun out. Putting his foot down to stop his momentom and prevent himself from falling over, Michael stepped off and kicked down the kick-stand in one fluid, practiced movement.
He looked around him, as if something was there and now it was not. Or something that wasn't there should be. He fell down onto his knees, barely visible tears gracing his face.
"Why are you doing this to me?" He cried out to someone who wasn't there. A wind rattled the sparse bush surrounding him, and Michael shot up.
"Fi?" He asked, in a voice full of hope. His face fell when the only answer he recieved was the beginning of a rain storm. The drops got larger and the pelted Michael with such force, leaving marks on his black, leather jacket. He didn't notice.
Finally, with hair matted to his head, and all hope gone, Michael began to ride again and he disappeared into the dark night.