Then you hear it. A low, guttural growl that vibrates deep in your chest, swallowing the evening's quiet. It's the sound of raw power, of rebellion, of something that doesn't belong in this mundane, well-lit place.

A motorcycle, all matte black and brutal angles, glides to a stop at the pump across from yours. The rider cuts the engine, and the sudden silence feels heavier than the roar. He swings a leather-clad leg over the seat, his movements fluid and economical. He doesn't look at the pump. He looks at you.