Terri's fingers brushed over cold metal, her touch reverent—almost careful. The tank loomed over her like a slumbering beast, its armored plates scarred and dulled with age. Oil stains darkened the ground beneath it. The faint smell of rust and fuel hung heavy in the air.
"This is incredible…" she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
A man leaned casually against the tank's side, boots crossed at the ankles. His eyes glittered with pride, sharp and predatory, arms folded across his chest. He claimed the tank without needing words.
Dirty leather jacket. Marina shirt beneath, faded and torn at the collar. Hair slicked back with grease that hadn't been washed out in days.
A greaser. Every inch of him.
"I'm the one who usually operates this baby," he said, lips tugging into a smug grin.
Terri glanced at him, then back at the tank.
"Against what?" she asked, a spark of excitement slipping into her voice before she could stop it.
The man didn't answer right away.
