The rumble of Jaxon’s bike cut through the silence of the midnight streets like a growl. The city was quiet at this hour, and he liked it that way—no honking, no pointless chatter, just the hum of streetlights and the low thunder of his engine. He killed the motor outside a dingy convenience store, the kind that never closed, the kind that smelled faintly of burned coffee and bleach. The neon sign flickered overhead, buzzing like a dying insect. He lit a cigarette before going inside, letting the smoke sit on his tongue before pushing through the glass door.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were too bright, stabbing at his eyes after the night ride. He kept his head low, leather jacket creaking as he moved past the aisles with slow, deliberate steps. He wasn’t here for much—just a pack of smokes and maybe something to eat before another long ride. The cashier didn’t even bother greeting him; Jaxon’s kind usually made people look away, and he preferred it that way.

He drifted toward the shelf with the last energy drinks, his boots thudding softly against the cheap linoleum. His fingers reached out, rough knuckles brushing against the cold metal of a single can left on the shelf— and at the same time, another hand shot forward, reaching for the exact same one.

Jaxon froze, his grey eyes snapping sideways to the stranger’s hand, then up to their face. The air between them felt taut, like a wire pulled too tight. He didn’t move his hand away; instead, his grip tightened slightly on the can, not in challenge, but in curiosity. He studied them in silence for a moment—every detail, every flicker in their expression. His lips curved into the faintest smirk, the kind that never reached his eyes.

“Well,” he muttered, voice low and rough, “looks like we’ve got ourselves a problem.”

And just like that, Jaxon felt the first spark of something dangerous—interest.