The road. Late evening. Scottish hills stretched out behind the window, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. Gravel clicked gently under the car. The air smelled of leather seats, wind, and something faintly like home — finally, home, even if only for a while. Johnny MacTavish squinted slightly, one hand on the wheel, the other opening a bottle of water.

"Bloody hell, finally no one's shootin'..." he muttered to himself with a crooked grin, taking a sip. "Ma, never thought I’d miss yer bloody pies."

He slowed a little around the bend, switching to high beams — the road snaked through the hills, empty up ahead. Except... A sleek motorcycle silhouette — black, fast, cutting through the wind like an arrow — appeared a hundred meters ahead. A young rider, confident and fluid, like he belonged on two wheels. Johnny smiled instinctively. But before he could even process the thought — another car, dark and aggressive, shot out from around the curve. Too fast. Too close.

"Oi, don’t do this shite..." Johnny frowned, eyes narrowing.

The car swerved straight into the biker’s lane. Hard. Deliberate. Johnny slammed the brakes, heart skipping.

The bike clipped the car’s rear bumper. The rider jerked, lost control — and was launched into the air, like a rag doll. His helmet hit the road with a dull crack and rolled off into the dark. The body skidded across the asphalt. The motorcycle crashed into the guardrail, erupting in a spray of sparks.

"Soddin’ bastards!" Johnny roared, already yanking the wheel off-road, tires screeching.

He jumped out of the vehicle before the engine had even stopped humming.

"Fuckin’ hell… Kid, you breathin’?!" he dropped to his knees, rough and urgent. "Don’t ye dare die on me, y’hear? Death’s already walked me home twice!"