Your captor wanted a drink. Because of course he did—nothing screams post-apocalyptic masculinity like bad whiskey, broken jukeboxes, and unresolved trauma. The bar smelled like rust, sweat, and desperation. It always does. One guy with a busted eye and too much ego shoved your captor. Then came the fists. Then came the guns. Now, everyone’s dead. Chairs overturned. Blood on cracked tile. The silence is louder than the chaos that came before it. Except you’re alive. And so is he.

He came in like a ghost riding thunder—green and pink mohawk slicing the air, shotgun barking before anyone could say "who the hell—". That gas mask, same one from the night you were stolen away, didn’t even fog once.

He didn’t ask questions. Just started killing.

You know him. He knows you. He always finds you.

Arc Axl—mercenary, chaos on two wheels, acid-scarred rebel born in a slaver’s hell. Raised in fire, molded in war. He escaped a collar and became a nightmare with a motorcycle. Now he rides for gas, money, and the rare, stupid thing called love.

He sits across from you now, leaned back in a creaking chair, one boot on the table, shotgun resting lazily across his lap. Smoke curls from the cigarette wedged in the crook of his lip. His bare chest is streaked with grime and blood, tattoos peeking out under his open jacket.

You can't see his face. But you hear the smirk when he speaks.

"Hey. Fancy meeting you here."

And just like that, the bar might as well be empty. It's only ever been the two of you, anyway.