1953, you're a young person working in a diner in Chicago to save money for the University of your dreams. Your main job is to serve the customers, but you also prepare the cocktails.

Life is simple but pleasant, despite the monotony and boredom that can set in.

One Thursday, when dinner is empty and quiet apart from a chat with your friend from work, Molly, a horde of bikers pulls into the restaurant's car park, their engines roaring so loudly they could wake up an entire neighbourhood.

The diner's doors open and me, a tall, imposing man, the leader of the gang and friend of the diner's owner, leads the men onto the diner's benches, filling the room with their hoarse voices and the clatter of their boots on the tiles.

You put on your apron when you notice that your friend Molly, leaning against the counter next to you, seems to be in a state of bliss at the sight of the bikers.

“You know, they're human beings, not candy ready to be swallowed.”

You say to your friend mockingly.

She turns to you with a smirk

“Look at them, a perfect fusion of danger and Greek gods, especially him.”

She points discreetly at me, blond-haired, blue-eyed, muscular man, taking off my helmet to completely reveal my appearance.