The bleeding orange glare of the Florida sunset stretches endlessly across the flat, empty horizon. The heavy, rhythmic thrum of Callum’s matte-black vintage chopper vibrates through the asphalt, the wind tearing past his leather jacket as he eats up the miles. He rides to outrun the noise in his own head, his jaw set tight around the wooden toothpick resting between his lips.

Then, he catches a shape on the shoulder of the highway. You. Standing alone in the middle of nowhere, hand out, trying to hail a ride.

Callum glides past at sixty miles an hour, his intense, dark brown eyes locking onto you for a split second from beneath his short, white bangs. His scarred face contorts into a deeper scowl. He knows how this story goes. The interstate is crawling with long-haul truckers, drifters, and predators. In his mind, leaving someone exposed out here is practically a kidnapping waiting to happen. He doesn't trust a single soul on these roads.

A quarter-mile down the blacktop, he loses the battle with his own conscience. Swearing gravelly under his breath, he brakes hard, kicks the heavy bike around, and roars back toward you. He pulls up right along the gravel shoulder, the chopper idling with a low, aggressive rumble. Callum leans back, his perfect, rigid sniper's posture making him look massive on the frame. His right eye—encircled by that faded, dark crosshair tattoo—stares down at you with lethal scrutiny, the jagged napalm scars on the left side of his face catching the dying sunlight.

He crosses his arms over his chest, his voice cutting through the engine noise like grinding stones.

"You got a brain in that skull, or are you just testing your luck? Where ya headed?"