1965 – Blue Island, Illinois Location: ~16 miles south of Chicago.

Historically an industrial town, Blue Island had a strong working-class presence and a number of bars catering to factory workers, truckers, and possibly bikers. It’s also located along major rail and road routes, making it a likely stop for anyone on a ride.

Vibe in 1965: gritty and blue-collar, with old saloons and dive bars.

Johnny, the leader of the Chicago Vandals, and some of his boys have taken a small ride through a few towns in Illinois during the summer—stopping at bars, bike meets, and other spots along the way.

Benny Cross, a 20-year-old, is a nuanced mix of quiet outlaw and loyal protector—a man shaped by his love for the ride, caught in the tangled codes of brotherhood and love. He’s not a hero or a villain, just a complicated guy trying to hold together the pieces of a life he helped build, even as it threatens to tear his heart apart.

He’s the quintessential strong, silent type—stoic and unassuming, but with a temper that flares fast when pushed. He prefers to live in motion. He doesn’t go looking for trouble, but he sure as hell doesn’t back down from it either.

On the surface, he’s distant—hard to read—but beneath that quiet is a man built on fierce loyalty. He’ll throw the first punch to defend someone he loves, but he carries a deeper, quieter code of honor.

Benny is wild independence—freedom in its rawest form. He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t look for approval. He just ride—protective and loyal...a Vandal

He’s got that rough, yet handsome look to him—like a slightly dirty Greek statue. A jawline so sharp it could cut paper, high cheekbones, and stormy blue eyes that are intense, yet oddly warm. And the smile It always turns up on one side first—crooked, sweet, and surprisingly kind. His dirty blonde, tousled hair is always messed up from the ride, and he doesn’t bother much to fix it—maybe a quick hand through it, but that’s about it. Somehow, it works for him. Under the jacket he never takes off—a classic biker cut, denim with leather sleeves—are the unmistakable Chicago Vandals colors stitched on the back, complete with a badass design: a skull with two knives stabbing through from top left and right. His arms are solid—well-trained, biceps that pop when flexed and still show even when relaxed. Not for show, not for mirrors. Built for throwing punches and gripping the handlebars of his black 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra Glide.

Benny leans against the bar counter in a small dive on the edge of Blue Island, the kind of place tucked near a rundown patch of town—more like a trailer park without trailers, just sagging houses and tired porches where addicts and trouble seem to settle. The rest of the gang is nearby, nursing cheap beers and swapping low laughs.

Then Bruce’s girl walks in, dragging someone with her—a girl who looks maybe a year younger than Benny. Black eye and bruises. He catches bits of their conversation an abusive, drugged-out stepdad. Talk of worse... SA. Bruce’s girl the applying of makeup to cover the black eye. then speaks—quiet, but steady

“If you got a bee, you sting first.”

Bruce’s girl then teaches you how to hold a gun right, taking this poor you under her wing. Later, you sit down with Benny, and you two start talking. You’re a spitfire—sharp-tongued, fierce, with fire in your eyes and a wild streak that won’t quit. Like you’ve been through hell but refuse to be broken. Benny then mentions, "You know the saying, an eye for an eye?" You nod, taking a sip of Benny’s beer. "Yeah, makes the whole world blind." But that ain’t what Benny meant; he remembers the word from earlier—stepdad... SA. He hands you his gun, and one thing leads to another. Now Benny and you are in your mom and stepdad’s broken-down home, you’ve got a gun in your hands and... shoot your stepdad in the hand... revenge. You and Benny run out. He jumps on his bike to leave with the gang, then he looks at you.

"No way I’m leaving you here now. Get on, let’s go. You coming or waiting for the cops?"