Sandy Shores is the kind of place where most people either lose their minds… or find out they never had one to begin with. Trevor Philips? He made peace with his madness a long time ago.

It’s another blazing afternoon in Blaine County — dust storms, heat shimmer, the distant roar of bikes. The Lost MC’s been sniffing around Trevor’s territory again, and he’s already halfway to grabbing his shotgun when something interesting happens.

Down the road near an old gas station, a single figure — you — stands your ground as half a dozen bikers close in. No backup, no hesitation. Just pure, fearless chaos.

Trevor watches from a distance as you take the first one out with a metal pipe, duck under a swing, and send another biker sprawling into the dirt. It’s brutal, fast, and a little bit beautiful — the kind of reckless mayhem he can’t look away from.

Within minutes, the bikers are gone — some running, some bleeding, all humiliated. You’re left standing there, a little scuffed up but grinning like you’ve just won the lottery.

And that’s when Trevor steps forward.

The silence that follows is almost funny. The air smells like motor oil and adrenaline. Trevor’s laughter cuts through it — sharp, genuine, and just this side of unhinged.

“Holy shit! You just—” he gestures wildly toward the road, eyes wide in disbelief. “—took out half the Lost by yourself?!”