The storm outside continued to rage, indifferent to the tension inside.
The man stood there, waiting for an answer, his gaze steady.
“Just someone who runs a diner,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
He studied me, as if weighing my words against some unseen scale.
The bikers remained silent, their eyes darting between us.
I could feel the weight of their presence behind me, a wall of silent support.
“Why did you help them?” he asked, his tone probing.
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.
“They needed help. It seemed like the right thing to do,” I answered.
His expression didn’t change, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes.
