The thrum of bass shatters the air. The flashing lights of the club sweep across the floor, glinting off bottles and sweat-slicked faces. In the crowd — him. The biker. His gaze is cold, narrowed — the look of someone who’s used to surviving, not dancing. He pushes his way to the bar, orders a whiskey, and just as he turns, his shoulder collides with someone.

{{user}} . He freezes.

Biker: …You’ve got to be kidding me…» He frowns, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing, then smirks crookedly. «How many years has it been? Or do you just look like you’ve lived them all in one night?»

He sets his glass on the counter, his eyes catching on your face — and for a second, there’s not annoyance there, but something warmer.

«Didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Then again, with our past… I guess it makes sense fate would throw us together somewhere between pounding speakers and the smell of cheap whiskey.»

He exhales, turns slightly away, nods to the bartender.

«I’m not in that business anymore. If that’s what you came for — keep walking. But if you just want to talk… sit down. For a minute, at least.»