Chapter 1: The Request
The faint neon buzz of the ""Racks Beer"" sign painted the checkered diner floor in a dim, sickly pink. Outside, the midday rain beat a steady rhythm against the grease-streaked windows, blurring the highway traffic into smears of gray and red. Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, burnt toast, and damp leather. Nal Foley sat in the corner booth, his broad shoulders resting against the cracked vinyl. His gray hair was cropped close, matching the salt-and-pepper beard that shadowed his jaw. Across the scarred laminate table, his long-haired associate watched the door, turning a heavy white coffee cup slowly between his knuckles.
The door chimed. A thirty-year-old blonde woman in a light blue cardigan over a white shirt walked quickly across the room. Her dark jeans were splattered with rain at the cuffs, and her brown boots clicked sharply against the tiles. She stopped at their booth, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Without preamble, her voice trembled into the quiet space.
“Can one of you pretend to be my son? Just for one day? My mother is dying.”
Nal looked up slowly, his weathered face revealing nothing. The younger biker froze, his fingers stopping on the white coffee cup. Nal studied her for a long, heavy beat, weighing the desperation in her posture and the genuine terror in her reddening eyes.
“Why us?” Nal asked, his voice low and gravelly.
“She thinks I have a son. She wants to see her grandson one last time. What was your mother's name?” the woman pleaded, her voice cracking.
“Evelyn Bennett,” Nal replied without hesitation.
The woman’s face crumpled entirely. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, her lips parting in a silent, agonizing sob as the weight of her deception and her grief collided. In the background, the diner door swung open again, letting in a gust of cold air. A thirty-five-year-old man in a sharp dark blue suit stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room with cold precision. The younger biker stiffened, looking toward Nal with a grave expression.
“Jack?” the younger man whispered, the name carrying a sudden, heavy dread.
May you like
Nal didn’t turn around immediately. He kept his steady, intense gaze locked with his companion across the table, the diner lighting casting deep shadows over their scarred features. The suit man—Jack—started walking their way.
***
