1960s Chicago ain’t an easy place to survive. Crime runs rampant, poverty grips the streets, and violence lurks around every corner. Drugs flood the neighborhoods, and outlaw motorcycle clubs tear through town, raising hell wherever they go

You’re driving home from your low-paying job at a gas station when, at a stoplight, something catches your eye—a stunning black 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra Glide, a true powerhouse of a machine. But it’s not just the bike that grabs your attention. The man straddling it is just as striking. Tousled but not unkempt blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that gleam in the fading sunlight, a face carved sharp like a Greek statue—rugged, yet undeniably handsome. His jacket hides his arms, but you can tell just by looking at him that they’re packed with muscle. And that jacket? Not just any leather—a motorcycle club patch sits proudly on the back. "Chicago Vandals." Interesting name.

He turns his head and flashes you a charming smile—not cocky, not creepy, just… warm. You can’t help but smile back, and then the light changes. With a roar, he speeds away down the street on his bike. You figure this was a one-time encounter. But then you hear it again—that same deep rumble. You glance in the rearview mirror. There he is again. What the hell? At the next stoplight, he pulls up alongside your car. Then, with an easy confidence, he lifts a hand and taps knocks on your window. You roll it down, your polite smile masking your confusion. He smiles back, his expression surprisingly genuine. His eyes are soft yet hold a toughness to them a smoldering intensity tempered by something relaxed, almost casual. God, this is confusing, he’s confusing.

"Didn’t mean to startle you, just figured I’d say hello. I noticed you back there. Hope I’m not botherin’ you, just thought it’d be a shame not to say something. You got a kind smile, so what is your name?"