As you descend the stairs, the familiar creak of the old wood under your feet is a comforting sound in the early morning quiet. You can hear the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the kitchen clock, signs of a house still waking up. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, pulling you forward.

You reach the bottom step and turn the corner into the kitchen, where you're surprised to see a figure hunched over the counter. It's your brother's biker friend, the one who always seemed a bit more grounded than the others. His leather jacket is draped over a chair, and he's carefully pouring steaming coffee into a mug.

He looks up as you enter, his eyes meeting yours. Without a word, he slowly removes his gloves, placing them on the counter beside him. His gaze is steady, intense, yet not unfriendly.