The clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversations filled the small table where Steven and Jim sat in a booth by the window. Plates of half-eaten burgers and fries were scattered across the table as Jim, ever the joker, tried to lighten the mood.
"I'm just saying, Steven," Jim quipped, gesturing with a fry, "if Kristina's fiancé keeps slicking his hair back like that, he's going to blind the whole church at their wedding."
Steven chuckled weakly, his mind still clouded with thoughts of Kristina and the strange dream. "Yeah, well, maybe he's hoping the glare will keep her from noticing how boring he is."
Jim laughed, shaking his head. "Man, you're brutal."
But before Steven could respond, the TV mounted on the wall above the counter flickered, and the familiar tone of a news bulletin caught their attention.
The Breaking News
The anchor's voice cut through the noise of the diner.
"Breaking news out of downtown: a tragic incident has claimed the life of a local man. Larry Ashford, known to many as a skilled mechanic, was fatally shot during a robbery on 344th Street earlier this evening. Witnesses report that two members of the notorious Beast Gang were involved. Police are on the scene, but the suspects remain at large."
Steven's fork clattered to his plate as his head snapped up to the screen. His blood ran cold as the image of Larry's face appeared—a photo likely pulled from an old ID.
"Wait, no…" Steven whispered, his voice trembling.
Jim's face fell, his usual humor evaporating. "Steven, isn't that…?"
But Steven was already on his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste. His heart pounded as the reality of the news sank in.
The scene shifted to chaos. The streets around 344th Street were cordoned off with bright yellow police tape, and the flash of red and blue lights bathed the area in an eerie glow. A crowd had gathered, murmuring in hushed tones as officers worked to secure the scene.
Steven pushed his way through the crowd, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jim trailed behind, calling after him.
"Steven, wait! You don't know what—"
But Steven didn't stop. His heart felt like it was about to burst as he caught sight of the familiar chopper lying abandoned near the sidewalk, its once-pristine body now scuffed and smeared with dirt.
"No… no, no, no…"
Steven ducked under the police tape, ignoring the shouts from officers to stay back. His eyes locked onto the lifeless form of Larry, partially covered by a white sheet. Blood stained the pavement beneath him, a stark and horrific contrast to the man's normally vibrant presence.
"Sir, you can't be here!" a police officer barked, stepping in his path.
Steven shoved past him, falling to his knees beside the body.
"Larry… no…" Steven's voice cracked as he pulled back the sheet slightly, revealing the man's pale, lifeless face. Tears welled in his eyes, his chest heaving with sobs.
"Why didn't you just give them the bike, you stubborn old man?" he whispered, his voice filled with pain and frustration.
Behind him, Jim finally caught up, stopping short when he saw the scene. His usual lighthearted demeanor was gone, replaced by a somber expression.
"Steven…" Jim said softly, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.
Steven shook his head, his tears falling freely now. "He didn't deserve this, Jim. He didn't…"
As Steven knelt there, the world around him seemed to blur. His grief gave way to something darker—an all-consuming anger that burned in his chest like an unquenchable fire.
"He didn't deserve this," Steven repeated, his voice low and shaking. "I'll make them pay for this."
Jim crouched beside him, his voice cautious. "Steven, don't… this isn't something you can fix by going after them. Let the cops handle it."
But Steven wasn't listening. His eyes locked onto the chopper, its gleaming metal reflecting the flashing lights of the police cars. For a brief moment, he thought he saw the faint glow of red in the headlight, as if the bike itself was watching him.
Steven wiped his face with the back of his hand, standing up with renewed determination.
"This isn't over," he said quietly, his voice filled with resolve.
Jim hesitated but didn't argue. He could see the fire in Steven's eyes, a fire that wouldn't be extinguished until something—someone—paid for this tragedy.
As the scene faded, the camera lingered on the chopper, its engine eerily silent but charged with an almost palpable energy, hinting at the storm yet to come.
The heavy scent of incense hung in the air, mingling with the damp earth that clung to the graveyard. The gathering was small, yet filled with a quiet, somber atmosphere. Larry Ashford's funeral was not the kind of event that drew crowds, but it was one that made everyone who attended feel the weight of loss.
Steven stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes staring blankly at the gravestone. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. His mother, Levi Henderson, stood beside him, her face pale and etched with lines of grief. She held her son Hans Henderson close, who stood stiffly, eyes distant, seemingly unaffected by the scene. The only hint of emotion in his posture was the subtle trembling of his hands.
The priest stood at the grave, chanting ancient lines of salvation, his voice low and reverberating through the trees. Each word carried a heaviness that seemed to press down on the crowd, making it hard for Steven to breathe. The ritual was long, and for each moment that passed, the weight of the loss grew heavier.
Steven's gaze drifted to Kristina Geem, who stood off to the side, her eyes soft with sympathy. She didn't know how to approach him; he could tell. She had been his crush for years, but the sight of her now, standing there with her heart in her eyes, only deepened the ache in his chest.
Beside Kristina, Jim Ward shifted uncomfortably, trying to maintain his usual lighthearted demeanor, but it was clear that even he was affected. He had known Larry too, even if their relationship was built on a more comical foundation. Larry had always been the older, serious one who had the uncanny ability to make everyone laugh through sheer annoyance.
As the priest completed the final chant, everyone began to disperse. Thomas Henderson, Steven's estranged father, placed a hand on Steven's shoulder and gave him a sad smile.
"Son," Thomas began, his voice thick with emotion, "come back to the house. You shouldn't be here alone."
Steven's eyes flashed, a mix of anger and sorrow. He shook his head. "I need to stay here. The garage… it's the only thing left. I have to keep it running. I can't let it rot, not like…"
His voice trailed off, a lump forming in his throat. The thought of leaving the garage, of leaving everything that had connected him to Larry, felt like betrayal. He had to stay.
Thomas frowned, clearly disappointed, but said nothing more. He walked off with Levi and Hans, their figures retreating into the distance.
As the graveyard began to empty, only Jim and Steven remained. Jim leaned against a nearby stone, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "You sure about staying here, man? It's not exactly the best place to hang out."
Steven didn't respond, his attention fixed on the grave. Jim sighed, not knowing how to help, but willing to stay.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows near the entrance of the graveyard. The caretaker of the graveyard, an old man with wrinkled skin and piercing eyes, shuffled forward. His dark robes seemed to blend with the shadows, making him appear almost otherworldly.
Steven noticed the caretaker's presence before he spoke. The man's gaze was fixed firmly on him, as though he had known him for years.
"You," the caretaker began, his voice raspy yet clear, "You carry something, don't you?"
Steven blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
The caretaker stepped closer, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "A devil," he muttered. "You carry a devil inside you."
Jim shot a look at Steven, eyebrows raised. "What's this guy talking about?"
Steven frowned. "What do you mean? I'm not… I'm not carrying anything."
The caretaker's eyes locked onto Steven's with unnerving intensity. "The Rider," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's coming for you. A few years, maybe sooner. That bike you've been working on... It's not just a machine. It's a vessel for something darker. Something far more dangerous than you can imagine."
Steven's heart skipped a beat, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. He stepped back, his mind racing. "What are you talking about? I don't know what you—"
The caretaker cut him off, his gaze unwavering. "The Rider is tied to you, boy. Your soul is bound to the flames. And when the time comes, you'll have to face it. There will be no escaping it, no running. It'll burn you down, just like it did to those before you."
Steven's mind raced. The world around him seemed to blur. The caretaker's words echoed in his mind, but they made no sense.
"Who are you?" Steven demanded, his voice shaking with confusion and fear. "What do you know about me?"
The caretaker didn't answer. He simply turned and began to walk away, his long, tattered robes trailing behind him. Before he disappeared into the shadows, he called over his shoulder, his voice almost lost in the wind.
"Remember what I've told you. The Rider is coming. And it will cost you everything."
Steven stood frozen, staring after the caretaker. His mind was reeling, a thousand questions racing through his head. He turned to Jim, who was staring at him with a mix of concern and confusion.
"What the hell was that?" Jim asked, his voice low.
"I don't know," Steven replied, his voice distant. "But something feels wrong. I can't shake it. Like something… something's coming for me."
Jim placed a hand on Steven's shoulder, trying to offer some comfort. "Look, man, I know you're going through a lot, but maybe this guy's just a crackpot. People say crazy things when they're hurting, right?"
Steven didn't respond. He couldn't shake the feeling that the caretaker's warning wasn't just some random rambling. He had felt it too, deep in his bones—something was changing, and it had everything to do with the chopper.
But what? And why him?
For the first time since Larry's death, Steven wasn't sure where to turn next.
As the last of the mourners left the graveyard, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the graves. In the distance, the faint sound of a motorcycle engine could be heard, but when Steven looked, there was nothing there.