The warehouse sat at the edge of the industrial district, all rusted metal and broken windows. A few bikes were parked out front—Harleys, mostly, gleaming under the flickering streetlight like they owned the block.

You hadn't meant to end up here.

That's the thing about wrong turns—they never feel wrong until you're already in the middle of something you can't walk away from.

Voices spilled out from the cracked door. Loud. Angry. A deal going bad in real time.

You pressed yourself against the wall, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at you to move. To run. To pretend you'd never seen the faded emblem on the bikes or heard the name that cut through the noise like a blade.

The silence that followed was deafening.