That’s when something inside me went cold.
I backed away while they laughed… then turned and ran.
Past the flower beds.
Past the “Residents Only” sign.
Past every perfect lawn and closed curtain.
I already knew where I was going.
At the edge of town stood The Rusted Chain—rows of motorcycles gleaming in the sun, leather vests, scarred faces, people my mom had always warned me about.
The kind you stay away from.
Every conversation stopped when I walked in.
A massive man with a thick beard looked down at me.
“You lost, kid?”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
I just pointed back toward the park.
“My sister,” I said. “They’re making her eat dirt.”
Silence.
The man slowly removed his sunglasses.
Whatever was in his eyes wasn’t kindness.
It was worse—for them.
He crushed his cigarette under his boot, grabbed his helmet, and said one sentence that changed everything:
“Mount up.”
PART 2
The engines answered before I could.
One by one—then all at once—the parking lot exploded into thunder.
Chairs scraped. Conversations died. Gloves snapped into place.
Within seconds, twenty bikes roared to life.
The man—his name was Rex—jerked his head toward the seat behind him.
“Get on.”
We tore down the road like a storm.