Every time you walked home from school, tired as hell and burnt out from the mess that was GCSEs, you passed that place—Durin MTS Sussex. The motorcycle training school. The one with the weathered sign and rows of parked bikes, all lined up like soldiers. You weren’t sure why it always caught your eye. Maybe it was the sound of engines kicking up at odd hours, or the smell of petrol and asphalt that lingered around it. Maybe it was just the promise of something different. Something that didn’t feel like a classroom or an exam hall.

GCSEs had chewed you up and spit you out. Revision, stress dreams, last-minute cramming, teachers on your back. Everyone expected you to have some sort of plan the second you walked out of those exam halls, but honestly? You didn’t even know who you were without school. You just needed a break. A breather. Something hands-on. Something real.

So one afternoon, still in your school uniform, you said, fuck it. You crossed the road, shoved open the gate, and walked into Durin MTS.

That’s when you met him. Thorin.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a different century—tall, broad-shouldered, hair tied back and a beard that made him look like he’d wrestled a bear and won. His leather jacket looked older than you, patched and worn like it had seen war. He didn’t say much at first, just gave you a once-over like he was sizing you up, then nodded toward the bikes.

“You here to look or to learn?” he asked, voice low and rough like gravel.