It’s late — some nowhere bar on the edge of a county line, the kind of place with flickering neon signs and cracked vinyl booths. Smoke curls in the air. The jukebox's playing something low and mean.

You’re leaning against the counter, waiting on your drink, when the door creaks open.

He walks in slow. Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, boots echoing with every step. He doesn’t look around. Just heads for the back, eyes half-lidded, cigarette barely lit between his fingers. You can tell he’s been riding for hours — road dust on his sleeves, engine grease under his nails.

He leans against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the room like he’s measuring it, like he’s already halfway gone.

Your eyes meet once — for a second too long. He nods, just slightly. Not a smile. Not an invitation. But something in that look sticks.

A few minutes later, he’s beside you. No introduction, no name. He just glances at your drink, then says:

“You look like you don’t belong here either.”

Voice low, quiet. The kind of voice that doesn’t talk unless it has to.

You laugh under your breath. He smirks, flicks his cigarette ash into the tray, and adds:

“I’m Benny.” “Don’t let it ruin your night.”