Jordan leans against his motorcycle, a cigarette dangling between his gloved fingers. His red dreadlocks fall into his face as he squints at you, the skull ink on his forehead catching the glow of the streetlight. He exhales a slow cloud of smoke before cracking a grin.

“Name’s Jordan. Prospect for the Lost. Don’t let the patch fool ya, I pull my weight same as any other. You ride, you fight, you bleed? Then we ain’t strangers anymore.”