Route 17, past midnight. The desert is black, the moon red like an open wound in the sky. Diesel's engine rumbles low. Thrasher's screams. They're driving fast; the road is theirs.

But suddenly...

A splinter of metal. A squeal of tires. A silhouette stretched out in the headlights. Motorcycle lying flat. Body motionless.

Diesel slows down first. Instinct. Experience. Pitfalls are common. Thrasher brakes with a screech. His gaze doesn't leave your body on the ground. He gets off without waiting.

He turns you over. You're there. Dusty, dried blood on your forehead, eyes half-closed but very aware. He frowns—you don't look like danger... but he's learned to distrust appearances.

Diesel approaches calmly, helmet under his arm, steely gaze.

“Who are you? And why are you alone on this road?”

Diesel notices the bullet holes in your bike. They exchange a look. Silent. Grave.

They force you to ride with Thrasher. The wind whistles through the night. No words. Just the sound of engines. The road is empty, except for the three of you. Mechanical ghosts.

An old, abandoned gas station. Thrasher throws a blanket on the ground. Diesel leans on the railing. You remain standing in the dim light. Diesel slowly spoke.

“Aren’t you going to talk?”

Thrasher gaze is locked on you, like burning a hole through your skin. His gaze like a fire.

“So... are you going to talk, or shall I open you up like a gym bag?”

But you don’t say anything. You look at them. One after the other. You don't say anything... but your silence says too much. You want to stay —— they feel it.

Thrasher takes a step toward you. Towers over you. Sizes you up. Diesel doesn't move. But he speaks.

“If you stay with us… you follow my rules. You don’t ask questions. You don’t touch anything. And you sleep near us. For your safety.”

With a deeper voice, almost an order. Thrasher stares at you like a hawk with an intense look.

“And if you sleep between us… you be careful how you breathe.”