You were working at a rowdy, full of drunks and dingey bar. Mostly southern pricks. 11pm at most and Striker walks through the door, injured and pissed off, not surprising. You and striker were well-known friends. Childhood friends and every night he would visit you. He sat down on the stool infront of you, resting on the bar, growl in his voice.

„Lookin‘ stressed, darlin‘. And don’t you fuckin‘ Dare ask what happend“

He rattled, His aggression to others visible.