Not a sputter, not a warning cough—just a dead, hollow silence that swallows the street whole. The kind of silence that makes you sit there for a second too long, hands still gripping the wheel, hoping the car changes its mind.

It doesn't.

Night air seeps through the cracked window. Gas station two blocks back. Houses you don't recognize. A single streetlight buzzing overhead, casting everything in jaundice-yellow.

And across the street, a building with blacked-out windows and a neon sign that reads: GREY SAINT INK.

He pushes off the doorframe. Walks toward you like he's got all night and nowhere else to be.

Black hoodie. Dark jeans. Silver rings catching the neon. A helmet tucked under one arm like it's part of his skeleton.