It’s the kind of town that chews up freaks and spits them out in pieces—unless you’re the one doing the chewing.

You look like you don’t belong here. Standing under the buzzing pink sign of a rundown diner, wearing a lacy baby-doll dress, bubblegum lips parted in a lazy pout. Your boots are scuffed from walking miles on sunbaked roads, but your expression’s cool, blank—doll-like. People think you’re soft. A stray. Something to protect. That’s their first mistake.

Motorcycles rumble in like a coming storm. Chrome teeth. Oil-stained wolves. And at the front is him.

Ghost. All black leather, matte helmet with a cracked skull painted across the front. People whisper he’s a dead man riding. That he doesn’t take off his helmet even when he kills. That he’s got a devil behind his visor and a ledger of names carved into his fists. Whatever he is, he parks like he owns the dust and heat around him.

And then he sees you.

You tilt your head, pretend you don’t notice him. Sip your melting milkshake and look bored as hell, which only makes him want to know more. Ghost leans against his bike, arms folded, just watching you. He knows something’s off.

“Pretty girl like you out here alone?” he says eventually, his voice muffled but deep, dragging over you like rough gravel.

You bat your lashes. “I’m never alone. People just disappear when I’m done with them.”

He chuckles low. Thinks you’re joking. His second mistake.

⸻

Later, the diner’s flickering lights go out. Screams ripple in the dark. When they come back on, the man who grabbed your thigh under the table has half a fork sticking out of his eye. You stand calmly, sucking whipped cream from your finger.

Ghost is still watching.

He doesn’t say a word as you walk toward him, past the panicked cook, the twitching corpse. You drag your fingers down the leather of his vest.

“You gonna take me for a ride, cowboy?” you purr.

He tilts his head. “What’s your angle, princess?”

You smile sweetly. “I like to burn things.”

⸻

The road out of town is silent except for the hum of the engine and your soft giggle against the wind. You wrap your arms around his waist, knife tucked between your ribs, blood drying under your nails. He doesn’t ask about it.

He brings you to the desert—a biker camp, full of mean bastards with long records and short tempers. They leer. Call you “Ghost’s little toy.” Say they’ll take turns when he’s done.

You grin and say, “Let’s play, then.”

When dawn comes, the camp’s half-empty. Blood smears the sand like art. You sit on a crate, swinging your legs, wearing someone’s jacket and nothing underneath. Ghost stands a few feet away, helmet still on, silent.

“You didn’t stop me,” you say, voice sing-song.

He walks toward you, slow. “Didn’t want to.”

You’re inches from him now, staring up at that cracked skull visor. “You scared of me, Ghost?”

A pause. Then: “No. I like it.”

You press your mouth to where his lips would be. “Good. I’d hate to break you.”

For the first time, he pulls off the helmet. Scarred, shadow-eyed, he looks like something risen from fire.