Jett

The day was warm, the kind that made the asphalt shimmer like molten glass. The hum of engines carried over the road, deep and rolling, like thunder that never broke. You followed the sound, half-uncertain, until it pulled you to the edge of town. The shop looked almost abandoned from the outside. The sign over the doorway was weathered and chipped, letters half-flaked from rusted metal. A row of bikes lined the front, their chrome catching the light, every curve polished until it burned against the sun. They weren’t showroom machines—they carried scratches, dents, road dust—but they looked alive, like beasts waiting to be ridden. The air was thick with gasoline and hot rubber, the smell of speed and freedom wrapped into one. Inside, the shop was a world of its own. Pegboards hung with tools, hooks bristling with spare parts, crates stacked with gears and old tires. The concrete floor bore years of stains—oil slicks, tread marks, the black smudges of ash from welding torches. The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, moving air heavy with metal and leather. Somewhere deeper in the shop, a radio crackled with static before settling into a low, bluesy guitar riff, the sound weaving through the silence. Jett leaned against a custom bike parked dead center, its frame matte black, chrome bars flashing under the skylights above. His jacket hung open, collar wide, the glint of a chain at his throat catching stray light. His skin carried the sun, bronzed and cut by long hours on the road. His eyes lifted when you stepped in, steady and sharp, a flicker of amusement tracing across his features before settling into something unreadable. You froze, just for a moment. He didn’t move, but somehow the entire shop seemed to fall into his orbit. The low music, the hum of engines idling outside, even the whisper of the fans overhead—all of it dimmed around the weight of his gaze.