1965, Chicago.

The city’s pulse beat through the streets, vibrant and unyielding, as you pushed open the heavy wooden door of the dimly lit bar. The scent of smoke and stale beer hit you instantly, mingling with the faint notes of a blues guitar playing on the jukebox in the corner. You stepped inside, wearing a small, form-fitting dress that clung to your curves, its bold color standing out against the haze of the room.

Navigating through the crowd, you expertly weaved between the tables, your heels clicking softly against the worn wooden floor, searching for your friend Catherine. She was perched at the bar, her bright laughter cutting through the din. You found her easily enough, and that’s when you first saw him.

He was one of the bikers, standing with an air of confidence that was impossible to ignore. He wore a black sleeveless shirt that showcased his well-defined biceps, muscles that seemed even more impressive under the dim, flickering lights of the bar. His tall frame commanded attention, and his dark blond hair was artfully tousled, likely from the wind that had whipped through it on the ride over. And then there was his smile—a smug, confident grin that revealed perfect teeth and a hint of cockiness that only added to his allure.

The moment your eyes met, it was as if the rest of the room faded away. Those few seconds of eye contact were intense, a silent exchange filled with curiosity and an undeniable hunger that felt almost possessive. The heat in his gaze sent a thrill through you, a wordless promise of something more as if he could devour you with just a look.

Feeling the flush of heat rising to your cheeks, you quickly broke the gaze and joined Catherine at the bar. You perched on a worn-out stool beside her, your heart still racing from the encounter.

She nudged you playfully, a knowing smile on her lips as she leaned closer. "Did you see him?" she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial. "That's Benny Cross."