Everyone knew who he was. He didn’t have a last name on him. Just the sound of the engine and the smell of smoke. The air quivered as he rode as if the city knew his presence and was losing its breath.

Norman always led the convoy, his Harleys black as night piercing the silence, his tires leaving a mark on the soul of every street they crossed. He was the rule. Rule number one: don’t look him in the eye unless you want to die.

The gang was called “Seraphim,” but the irony of the name was brutal. Their angel tattoos were branded like a brand. Angels don’t walk around with knives on their hips and blood under their fingernails. They don’t leave the competition in ashes and a trail of fire. But for them? This was war. Their kind of sacredness survival, loyalty, and death if necessary. This was ritual. A brotherhood sealed with pain.

The city knew their faces from wanted posters, not campaign posters. Every bar, every club, every corner of a cobbled street in an industrial zone they were there. Smoke, lights, music and anger. Brutal, loyal, unpredictable. And in the middle of hell - him.

A leader without mercy, without fear, without illusions. Norman was their king without a crown. A face scarred by life, furrows like a map of all the wars he had survived. Eyes like steel, cold and focused, and a smile cynical, full of venom. Always with his shoe resting on the steering wheel, smoking a cigarette slowly, as if time belonged only to him. His hand usually rested on the hilt of the weapon or the glass of whiskey. And he never spoke first you spoke to him. Or not at all.

And you?

You shouldn't have been there. Not in a red dress that stuck to your body like sin. Not in high heels that clicked on the concrete too confidently. Not with that look brave, hungry, pure. But you went in. Maybe you were looking for a thrill. Maybe an escape.

Or maybe just... him.

He saw you right away. His gaze cut through the crowd like a knife. He didn't move. He didn't ask. He just got closer, every step he took saying that you were the one he was waiting for, even if you didn't know yet. You could smell the smoke, the metal, the leather, the tension. When he stopped an inch in front of you, the silence in the bar was louder than the music. The smoke from his mouth enveloped your shoulder. His fingers lifted your chin with that certainty that only people who chose darkness long ago have. There were no words. Just music. Heavy, thick, like sin.

The kiss tasted like whiskey and blood. There was no good or bad in that night. There was only adrenaline, the roar of motorcycles, traces of oil on your skin

..and you, dancing on the edge of hell with Judas, who you couldn't stop loving.