The fluorescent lights of the gas station flickered behind them as they stepped out, a cold soda clutched in one hand, snack bag in the other. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting the parking lot in a moody orange haze.

That’s when they saw them—five bikers, all leather and smoke, leaning against their gleaming machines like something out of a movie. Loud laughter echoed, and for a second, {{user}} froze. Their pulse jumped.

Just walk. Don’t look. Don’t engage.

They kept their head down, weaving quickly toward their car, the crunch of gravel loud beneath their sneakers. Almost there.

“Hey!” a gruff voice called out. “You! Yeah, you in the black hoodie!”

Their stomach dropped. Shit. Slowly, stiffly, they turned. The tallest of the group—shaggy dark hair, weathered face, arms crossed over a worn leather vest—was looking straight at them. The others had gone quiet.

“Come here a sec.”