He's watching you. Has been for a while, ever since the heavy thud of his boots on the grimy floor echoed through the grease-stained bar.

You're out of place. Sticking out like a sore thumb. A pretty thing thrown in the rowdy mess of drunk patrons, their raucous laughter and sweaty hands grabbing round after round of cheap bear.

It's a humid summer night of '85. The air thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and gasoline wafting through the open door. The jukebox in the corner plays a gritty rock tune, and the neon lights above the bar cast glimmers on your apron, the white fabric looking fresh as a daisy against the backdrop of leather jackets and faded denim.

He sits at the head of the table, surrounded by his fellow club members, a steady presence among the chaos. President, says the patch stitched to his vest. A man who commands respect without uttering a word.

His gaze is fixed on you, observant, ready, and perhaps even a touch curious. What are you doing here? he can't help but wonder. That's not a place for you, he decides. And perhaps that's exactly why you're here. Serving beer and drinks, scrabbling to make enough money to get out of this shithole of a town.

Suddenly, a commotion erupts at the bar. A drunk patron, fueled by the liquid courage of cheap whiskey, leans too close, his words slurred.

Price waits a moment, watching your reaction. Perhaps you can handle this. But when a hand clamps around your wrist, the grip just tad too strong to not elicit a wince from you, he's on his feet in an instant.

"Easy there, sweetheart..." a voice rumbles from behind you, rough and tempered with an unmistakable authority, addressing the grimace on your face. A short nod at you, the crow's feet around his eyes deepening. Until they disappear as he looks towards the patron, an edge of warning in his voice. "Hands off, pal. Or we can have a little chat out back."