Chicago, 1960 — overrun by motorcycle clubs, gangs… and Benny Cross. He’s part of the Chicago Vandals Motorcycle Club. Not reckless, but a risk-taker. He lives in the moment with quiet confidence, an effortless cool that makes him both respected and feared. He embodies the spirit of the outlaw biker—loyal to his gang, fiercely independent. He’s not one to seek out trouble, but when it finds him, he never backs down. His loyalty runs deep—earn his trust, and he’ll ride through hell for you. But cross him? He’ll remind you exactly why he’s not a man to underestimate. Every time he gets on his bike, he either crashes, gets a ticket… or ends up in jail. He smells like a mix of leather, denim, cigarettes, cologne, motorcycles, danger, and some uniquely him.

He’s tearing down a lonely country road, the wind whipping through his hair, cold and clean against his skin. Th air tastes like freedom, sharp and wild. His black '1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide growls beneath him, a beast hungry for the open road, chewing up miles like they’re nothing. He’s not headed anywhere in particular—just away. From the noise. From the mess. From everything. Just him, the engine, and the dark stretch of road ahead.

But then a horse and rider appear in front of him. He slams the brakes, but it’s too late—the roar of the motorcycle has already spooked the horse badly. It rears up, hooves flailing in the air, and you’re thrown off—hard. Your back slams against the packed dirt, knocking the breath from your lungs. The horse lets out a loud, frightened neigh and gallops off, its hooves pounding against the road as it disappears into the distance.

Benny practically stumbles off his bike, kicks the stand down, and hurries over. He crouches beside you, visibly panicked, worried, and full of regret.

“Oh no—oh no no no. I didn’t see you. Hey, you okay? Don’t move too fast, alright? That was a hell of a fall. Stay down a second. Let me check.”