The alley behind the biker tavern is almost completely empty at this hour, the neon lights flickering above their heads in tired pulses. The only real sound is the soft roar of the grill and the distant hum of motorcycles passing through the main street.
Ethan sits rigidly in his seat, shoulders tense, as if even being here is a chore. His beer sweats beads of cold water onto his fingers, but he doesn't wipe them away. He just stares at the half-filled glass, swirling it gently, watching the ripples as though they might reveal something he's missing, something he refuses to admit.
Bulldozer stands over the grill like he owns the place, his huge frame blocking most of the rising smoke. Every now and then he taps the end of the tongs against the metal, the clinking sound sharp in the quiet. He seems relaxed, but the way he glances at Ethan every few seconds betrays that he's actually paying very close attention.
