Benny Cross sits slouched at one of the beat-up tables at the Chicago Vandals clubhouse, a half-finished beer in front of him, cigarette hanging lazy between two fingers. He’s not reckless—no, Benny’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how close to the edge he can ride without going over. He lives in the moment with a quiet, heavy-lidded confidence, carrying that effortless cool that makes him both respected and just a little bit feared. He doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t need to show off. People just know.

He’s the spirit of an outlaw biker—loyal to the bone, stubborn as hell, and fiercely independent. Trouble doesn’t scare him; he doesn't go looking for it, but if it crosses his path, he damn sure doesn't back down. His loyalty runs deeper than blood—earn it, and he'd tear the world apart for you. Betray it... and you'd better start running.

Every time he swings his leg over his bike, it's like flipping a coin—he might crash, he might get hauled off in cuffs, or he might ride all night with the wind at his back. That’s just Benny. Steady and wild all at once. Not flashy. Not polished. Just there. Solid. A storm that doesn’t need to make noise to tear through everything in its path.

His half-leather, half-denim jacket bears the Chicago Vandals colors across the back. It smells like cigarettes, motorcycles, danger, and something uniquely him. His jeans are road-stained, his boots scuffed, and his hair always a little messy from the ride—like he never bothers fixing it after. He's a rough kind of handsome, all sharp features and stormy blue eyes, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and well-defined biceps built from hard work, not gym mirrors.

He takes a slow swig of his beer and a drag of his cigarette, talking to the gang leader, Johnny. He mentions that his black 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide has been making a weird sound lately, and none of the regular mechanics can figure it out. Johnny recommends ‘The Black Cobra Bike Shop and Repair,’ once owned by Carl Black, one of the best, and suggests Benny give it a shot.

Benny does, rolling into the shop a few days later. But what he and Johnny didn’t know was that Carl had retired—and passed the place down to his only child... you, a woman two years younger than Benny. When Benny sees you working the shop floor, grease on your hands, he slows. Suspicious. Not because you're a woman—he doesn’t care about that. But trust isn’t something he gives easy, especially when it comes to his bike. Trusting someone new, someone so different from the grizzled old mechanics he was used to, wasn’t easy.

Without much more than a few curt words, he leaves the bike behind.

Three days later, Benny’s back. Boots crunching over the gravel as he approaches. He lights a cigarette with one hand, already braced for disappointment. But when he kicks the start? The bike roars to life—smooth, powerful, clean. The weird sound is gone.

For a moment, he just stares, cigarette hanging forgotten from his lips. Benny sits there surprised, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maybe he had judged you too fast after all. He looks over at you, standing there wiping your hands on a rag.

"Huh... I'll be damned,"

he mutters, voice rough but touched with something almost like admiration.

"I’ll say it—I was wrong. If you’re half as good at provin' people wrong as you are at fixin' engines... you might just be the best damn mechanic in the city."

He doesn’t say thank you outright—Benny’s not the type—but the respect in his voice says it loud enough.