Steven's eyes shot open, his chest rising and falling as though he'd run a mile. The remnants of the nightmare clung to
him—shadowy figures, the old man's gravelly voice, and the sound of roaring thunder. His throat was dry, his body coated in cold sweat. He sat up on his bed, staring into the dim light of his room.
"The hell was that…" he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. The vividness of the dream gnawed at him like a predator toying with its prey. The images replayed in his mind—the contract, the man's voice, and the sensation of something... unnatural.
Unable to shake the feeling, he slipped on his boots and stepped out of the room. The faint scent of motor oil and burnt rubber filled the air as he made his way to the garage.
The old chopper stood in the center of the space, its rusted frame catching the light from a hanging bulb. It was an ominous sight, almost daring him to approach. But instead of the eerie silence he expected, there was movement.
Larry was crouched next to the bike, wiping his hands with a rag, his focus entirely on the engine.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Larry said without looking up. "You're up early for once. Didn't think you knew mornings existed."
Steven forced a smirk, his legs still unsteady. "Yeah, well... had a rough night."
Larry straightened up, squinting at his nephew. "Rough night? What, the neighbor's dog snoring too loud again?"
"Funny," Steven replied, leaning against the wall. "No, I had this... dream. More like a freak show in my head. There was this old guy—who looked like he walked out of a horror movie—and he was saying all this cryptic stuff. Then he... he made me sign something. A contract."
Larry raised an eyebrow, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "A contract, huh? With whom, the IRS?"
"I'm serious," Steven snapped, the usual humor absent from his tone. "It felt real, like... too real. And now I can't shake it. Felt like my damn soul was on the line."
Larry chuckled, tossing the rag onto the workbench. "Kid, you've been watching too many late-night horror flicks. Sounds like a bad pizza dream to me."
Steven frowned, running a hand over his face. "Yeah, maybe. But it... I don't know, Larry. Something's off."
Larry clapped him on the shoulder. "Tell you what—why don't you go outside, get some fresh air, clear your head? I'll finish up here and head into town for some parts. You've been overworking yourself lately, and it's probably just your brain messing with you."
Steven nodded reluctantly, his eyes lingering on the bike. "Yeah... maybe."
Larry mounted the chopper bike, firing up the engine with a roar. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone," he said, grinning as he sped off toward the main town.
Steven watched him go, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.
Not long after, Jim arrived, whistling a tune as he stepped into the garage. "Yo, Stevie-boy! What's with the long face? You look like you saw your bank account balance this morning."
Steven gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Something like that."
Jim leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Alright, spill it. What's eating you?"
Steven hesitated for a moment before recounting the dream in detail, sparing no eerie moment. When he finished, Jim stared at him for a long beat before bursting into laughter.
"Dude, that's gold. You've got a career in storytelling if this whole mechanic gig doesn't work out."
"I'm serious, Jim," Steven said, his voice edged with frustration.
Jim smirked, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. So, you had a creepy dream about some old dude and a contract. Big deal. Maybe it's your subconscious telling you to stop slacking off."
Steven shook his head. "It wasn't just a dream, man. It felt... wrong. Like something's happening to me."
Jim studied him for a moment, his usual humor softening. "Okay, maybe it was a weird dream. But you're fine, dude. You're just psyching yourself out. Let's grab some food or something. Clear your head."
Steven sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yeah... maybe I need to."
The two left the garage, but as Steven walked away, he couldn't resist a glance back at the chopper's standing place while it was taken by Larry to the city. For a brief second, he thought he heard something—an engine's low growl echoing through the space.
But when he looked again, the garage was silent.
Shaking his head, Steven muttered to himself, "Get a grip."
The uneasy feeling lingered, but he followed Jim, hoping to distract himself from the growing dread clawing at his mind.
***
The bustling streets of the town were alive with noise—a blend
of car horns, street vendors shouting their wares, and the occasional laughter of children playing nearby. Larry Ashford, with his trusted tools slung in his bag, parked the old Harley Davidson chopper outside a dusty parts shop. His face carried the usual seriousness, but his mind lingered on Steven's strange dream.
He dismounted and was about to step inside when his eyes caught sight of him.
Across the street, standing in the shadow of a streetlamp, was the old man Steven had described. His long coat fluttered slightly in the faint breeze, but his face remained hidden under the brim of a wide hat. Larry froze, his heart hammering in his chest. The man didn't move, but it felt as though his gaze was piercing through Larry, pinning him in place.
"What the hell…" Larry muttered under his breath. He took a cautious step forward, but before he could cross the street, chaos erupted.
From the corner of his eye, Larry saw two men burst out of the town's small bank, one clutching a bag stuffed with cash, the other waving a pistol wildly. People screamed and scrambled for cover.
"Get out of the way!" one of the robbers barked, shoving a man to the ground as they made their way toward the alley where Larry stood.
Larry instinctively backed up, but the sound of screeching tires and shouting made it clear they were cornered. The robbers scanned the area, and their eyes landed on the chopper parked nearby.
"That'll do," the one with the pistol said with a smirk, motioning toward the bike.
Larry's jaw tightened. "Not a chance. Go steal something else."
The other robber, taller and meaner-looking, stepped forward and raised his own weapon. "Listen, old man, we ain't got time for this. Hand over the bike, and we'll let you walk away."
Larry stood firm, his hands clenched into fists. "You think I'm afraid of a couple of punks with guns? This bike ain't yours. Go to hell."
The shorter robber laughed cruelly. "Wrong answer."
The pistol cracked three times in quick succession. Larry staggered, his body jolting with each impact. Blood spread across his shirt, staining the dusty ground beneath him.
The taller robber cursed. "Why'd you shoot him? We needed him alive to start the damn bike!"
"Shut up and grab the cash! We'll push it if we have to!"
Larry fell to his knees, clutching his chest as the world around him blurred. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and as he collapsed onto his side, his eyes instinctively turned toward the old man across the street.
The figure remained still, watching silently, as if the chaos unfolding before him was nothing more than a trivial spectacle. Larry's vision dimmed, but he managed to whisper one word before the darkness claimed him.
"Steven…"
As the robbers struggled to roll the chopper away, the old man finally stepped forward, his polished boots clicking against the pavement. He stopped beside Larry's lifeless body, tilting his head slightly as if in mock pity.
"You should've stayed out of it," he muttered, his voice low and cold. He turned his attention to the two robbers.
"Leave the bike."
The shorter robber looked up, confused. "What? Who the hell are you?"
The old man raised his hand, and for a brief moment, the shadows around him seemed to deepen unnaturally. The robbers froze in place, their faces twisted in terror as the man's eyes glowed faintly red.
"I said, leave the bike."
The robbers dropped the chopper without another word and ran, abandoning their loot in their haste to escape.
The old man crouched down beside Larry's body, placing a hand on the bike's handlebar. A faint smile played on his lips as he whispered to himself, "The first step is complete."
The scene fades as the chopper sits abandoned in the alley, the faint glow of its headlights flickering eerily in the morning