He laughed as he kicked the disabled girl into the mud… But he didn’t realize ninety-nine cyclists were right behind him until the whirring stopped.

The rain in Seattle doesn’t wash things clean; it just makes everything gray and heavy. That’s how my leg felt that Tuesday—heavy. My name is Elara, and my right leg is encased in a custom carbon-fiber brace, a necessity after the accident three years ago. It’s bulky, it catches stares, and on rainy days, the metal joints ache deep into the bone.

I was leaning against the Plexiglas of the bus shelter, trying to keep my balance. The bench was full. The air smelled of wet asphalt and exhaust.

Then, the atmosphere changed. It wasn’t the weather; it was him. A guy in a varsity jacket, broad-shouldered and radiating that specific kind of aggression that makes the air feel thin. He shoved past an elderly woman to get under the roof.

“Move over,” he snapped, looking at me. I was tucked in the corner, the only dry spot left.

I shifted my weight, reaching for my cane. “I need a second,” I said, my voice quiet. “My leg locks up in the cold.”

He looked down at the brace, then back at my face. His lip curled. “I don’t have all day for you to reboot, Robo-cop. I said move.”

He didn’t wait. He stepped forward and swung his boot—a heavy, muddy Timberland—straight into my shin.

Metal clanged against plastic. The force wasn’t enough to break the brace, but it threw my center of gravity off completely. I crumpled. My hands flew out to break the fall, splashing directly into a puddle of oily sludge. My cane skittered across the pavement, out of reach.

The bus shelter went silent. People looked away, terrified of drawing his attention.

The bully laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound. “Oops,” he mocked, stepping over my legs to take the spot I had occupied. “You look like a broken doll down there.”

I felt the tears before I felt the cold. I tried to push myself up, but the mud was slick. “Please,” I whispered, humiliation burning my cheeks. “My cane…”

“Get it yourself,” he muttered, pulling out his phone.

That’s when the sound started.

It wasn’t a roar. It was a hum. A high-pitched, rhythmic whirrrrrr that grew louder by the second. Like a swarm of angry hornets.

The bully looked up from his screen. “What is that noise?”

He looked to the left. His eyes widened.

Rounding the corner was a wave of black and yellow. It was the ‘Velo-City 99’ riding club. Serious cyclists. There were ninety-nine of them on their Tuesday endurance run. They moved like a single organism, a phalanx of Lycra and carbon fiber.

The lead cyclist was a giant of a man named Captain Miller. He had a gray beard wet with rain and thighs the size of tree trunks. He saw me on the ground. He saw the bully sitting dry on the bench. He saw the cane in the gutter.

He raised a single gloved fist.

Ninety-nine hands squeezed ninety-nine brakes. The whirring stopped instantly, replaced by the squeal of rubber on wet pavement.

They didn’t ride past. Miller turned his handlebars, and the entire formation swarmed the sidewalk. They completely surrounded the bus shelter, blocking the street, the sidewalk, and the exit.

The bully stood up, his phone dropping to his side. “What the hell? Get out of the way!”

Captain Miller dismounted. He didn’t unclip his shoes; he just walked on his cleats—clack, clack, clack—ominously approaching the shelter. He ignored the bully entirely and knelt in the mud beside me.

“Miss?” His voice was gravel, but gentle. “Don’t try to move too fast. Are you hurt?”

“My… my brace implies… I just need my cane,” I stuttered, wiping mud from my face.

Miller gestured. Two other riders, sleek and fast, grabbed my cane and wiped it down with a microfiber cloth before handing it to him. Miller helped me stand, acting as a human crutch, unbothered by the mud staining his expensive jersey.

Once I was steady, Miller turned. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were like cold steel.

The bully was pressed against the back of the shelter. He looked at Miller, then at the ninety-eight other riders standing silently behind him, arms crossed, staring him down.

“Did you do this?” Miller asked. The volume wasn’t loud, but the intensity was suffocating.

“She… she slipped,” the bully stammered. “I was just sitting here.”

“I saw you kick her,” Miller said. “And I saw you laugh.”

Miller took a step forward. The bully shrank back. “Look, it was a joke. I didn’t mean—”

“You kicked a woman with a disability into the mud because she was in your seat,” Miller corrected him. “That’s not a joke. that’s a target.”

Miller turned to the group. “What do we think, team? Is this guy a tough guy?”

“NO!” ninety-eight voices bellowed in unison. The sound shook the glass of the shelter.

The bully was trembling now. “I’m sorry,” he squeaked.

Miller leaned in close. “You aren’t sorry you did it. You’re sorry you got caught by a hundred witnesses. Now, you’re going to apologize to the lady. Properly.”

The bully looked at me. He looked at the wall of cyclists. “I’m sorry,” he said to me, his voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

Miller nodded. “And now, you’re going to walk. Because this shelter is for people waiting for the bus, and I don’t think you want to be here when the bus arrives.”

The bully bolted. He ran through a gap the cyclists opened up for him, slipping on the wet pavement in his haste, scrambling away into the rain without looking back.

Miller turned back to me. “The bus is five minutes out,” he said, checking his watch. “You okay to wait, or do you need a ride? We have a support van trailing us.”

“I’ll wait,” I smiled, feeling warm despite the rain. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Elara,” he said (he must have seen my name on my bag). “We ride this route every Tuesday. We’ll be keeping an eye out.”

He mounted his bike. He raised his fist again. “Let’s roll!”

And just like that, with a chorus of clicks and the whirring of gears, the ninety-nine cyclists vanished into the gray mist, leaving me standing tall, safe, and no longer alone.