Harley
Flashback
The bikes came in fast, flying on the road like metal birds, reckless and loud. One after another, eating up the space between us and the horizon. And then—sudden stop.
Right in front of the car.
Dust blew up everywhere, thick and gritty, rising like a damn smoke signal. The Earth spat it into the air, covering everything. All I could see were boots, black tires, glinting chrome, and those godawful skulls—painted, patched, hanging from chains. Like some gang from a bad dream decided to drag us into their scene.
Clad was already out of the car.
No warning. Just the door swinging open and his boots crunching the dirt.
He didn't look back.
Didn't say a word.
His body moved like a machine — no fear, no twitch, just… alert. Shoulders tight, chest still, hands in his damn pockets like this wasn't something to care about. But it wasn't calm. It was that kind of energy where if you blink, someone's face ends up smashed on the pavement.
