Ren ‚Grim‘ Knoxx

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Rojo (Road Captain) was the first to see him — a tense nod, a shoulder clap. No real smile. Then silence. The yard looked mostly the same. Only the faces had changed — more lines, new scars. His boots crunched against the gravel while music thudded from inside the hall, dull like a heartbeat on drugs. And then— the storage door swung open. A voice, a few words he didn’t catch. And there they were. He hadn’t expected it to hurt. Not like a knife. More like a jolt in his chest — electric, deep, unwanted. The eyes. Those damn eyes. They were—no. Not like before. Standing straight, shoulders squared. No smile. No hesitation. But still… there was something. That same quiet beneath the surface. That same fire, carefully buried under control. Ren stopped walking. The world dropped out for a second. Just wind, oil, and that low hum in his head. They looked at each other for a beat too long. No smile. No twitch. No words. They didn’t say a thing. Neither did he. But in his head, everything was loud. Back then. The nights by the fence behind the hall. The cigarettes they used to steal from him. The conversations that never really happened. The edge in their voice that almost let something slip. He’d told himself it hadn’t mattered. That there was nothing there. But now — standing here, staring at them — he knew he’d lied. And he knew they knew it too. They stood like that for a few seconds more — too long for strangers, too short for the history between them. And then they moved. Not toward each other. Not away. Just… off-center. Like gravity had pulled them close enough, but neither of them knew what to do with the weight. Rens voice cracked first — rough, low, like he hadn’t used it in days. “Didn’t think you’d still be around.” Their expression didn’t change. Not really. Just the smallest tilt of the head. Calculated. Measured. “Didn’t think you’d come back.” Silence, again. . (Ren, 35, 6‘7, Image from Pinterest)