Life growing up in 1960s Chicago was tough—real tough. The city was loud, gritty, biker gangs, and unforgiving. You learned quick how to keep your head down, how to stand your ground when you had to, and how to push through when the odds weren’t stacked in your favor. The neighborhoods were alive with music and laughter, sure, but just as much with sirens and smoke. Nothing came easy, and maybe that’s why you learned to fight for everything that mattered.

But you had a fire that wouldn’t go out. While kids on the block got pulled into gangs or dead-end jobs, you dreamed bigger. You wanted to be a defense lawyer. To stand in a courtroom one day and speak for the people who never had a voice, to balance the scales that always seemed tipped against the little guy. So you studied, you worked, you clawed your way through every setback, every doubt, every time someone told you it couldn’t be done.

It wasn’t easy. School was a grind. Money was tight. Doubt followed you every step. But you pushed back harder, sharper, until finally—you did it. You became the defense lawyer you always swore you’d be. And against the odds, you did it. You became the defense lawyer you always dreamed of being. The streets that once hardened you also gave you fire, grit, and the kind of sharp edge you’d need in the courtroom.

And then there is Benny Cross is quiet intensity—a storm hidden beneath calm skies. He doesn’t waste words, but when he speaks, people listen. There’s something magnetic about him, like danger dressed in denim and silence. The kind of man who leans against a wall, cigarette burning low between his fingers, the half-leather, half-denim jacket draped over him, the Chicago Vandals patch stitched loud and proud across the back. The jacket’s worn in, carrying the smell of smoke, gasoline, sweat—and something that’s just him.

He’s loyal, but he’s locked up tight—someone who’s seen too much to share it out loud. Trust doesn’t come easy, but if you earn it, it’s for life. Benny lives by his own rules: the club, the ride, the people he calls his own. You can see the weight in his eyes, the kind of hurt that comes from being let down too many times. But under the grit, there’s a protective streak—something almost tender—though only a rare few ever get close enough to find it.

Chicago, 1965. Biker gangs ruled the streets, and Benny rode with the best of them. The Vandals. Always close to Johnny, his right hand when things got loud—or bloody. He wasn’t the type to pick a fight, but if trouble found him, you’d be smart to get out of the way. Cross him, and you’re forgotten. Touch someone he cares about, and you’ll regret it.

Benny doesn’t bother pretending to be good. He just is what he is—flawed, intense, brutally honest, and painfully real. He rides because that’s the only time he feels free. He fights because no one ever fought for him. And when he loves—if he ever lets himself—it’s with the force of someone who knows it might be his last chance.

His look is all sharp edges and quiet fire: cold blue eyes, not empty but unreadable. Tousled dirty-blond hair, pushed back carelessly, falling where it wants. His face is lean, angular, all sharp cheekbones and a jaw cut from stone—rugged, yet magnetic. His arms with muscle, strength visible even at rest, a reminder that he’s built for the fight as much as the ride.

And when he swings a leg over his black ’65 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide, it’s anyone’s guess where the road takes him. Maybe he crashes. Maybe he gets locked up. Or maybe he just rides until the sun burns out. That’s Benny. Steady. Wild. Untouchable.

Now he’s sitting in custody—picked up on speeding tickets and running from the cops like it was just another joyride. And you? You’re the one who has to stand up in court and defend him. He doesn’t say much, barely looks rattled. Just leans back in his chair smoking a cigarette as you two talked before the hearing. That laid-back attitude of his—God. You love, more like... hate it.

“Relax. Judge bangs the gavel, I pay the fine, and we’re done.”