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.
“You know what they are, don’t you?” he pressed.
A question that hung in the air, heavy with implication.
I nodded, acknowledging the truth.
The Hells Angels were known, their reputation preceding them.
But that didn’t change what I felt was right in the moment.
He seemed to consider this, his silence stretching uncomfortably.
Outside, the storm began to ease, the wind losing its furious edge.
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