05/18/2026
âOld man, youâve got three seconds to move.â
The voice snapped across the Iron Thunder Roadhouse like a whip.
Every conversation stopped.
Forks froze halfway to open mouths.
Even the classic rock humming from the jukebox seemed to lower itself beneath the tension.
At the center table of the diner, an elderly man sat alone.
He looked like someone the world had forgotten a long time ago.
Thin gray hair framed a weathered face carved with years of hardship. His denim jacket was faded, the elbows worn through. His boots looked like they had crossed more roads than most men ever would.
In front of him sat a simple breakfast.
Two eggs.
Toast.
Bacon.
And a heavy ceramic mug of black coffee, still steaming.
Beside the mug lay an old silver pocket watch.
Its surface was scratched and dulled by time, but the old man kept it close, as if it were worth more than anything else he owned.
Across from him stood Rex.
Six foot four.
Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, leather, and tattoos.
A skull ring flashed on his fist as he planted both hands on the table and leaned down toward the old man.
âDid you not hear me?â
The old man calmly cut a piece of toast and took a bite.
He said nothing.
Rex smirked.
Around him, three other bikers chuckled.
At the far end of the long table sat Logan Mercer, president of the Iron Thunder Motorcycle Club.
He owned the roadhouse.
He was the kind of man truckers, drifters, and even local sheriffs treated with careful respect.
Logan was in his early forties, broad-shouldered, with a dark beard touched by gray and eyes as cold as steel.
He had been reading paperwork over breakfast, barely looking up.
At least, that was what everyone thought.
Rex snatched the old manâs worn cap from the table and tossed it aside.
It bounced off a syrup bottle and landed on the floor.
Laughter broke out around the diner.
The old man slowly lowered his fork.
First, he looked at the cap.
Then he looked up at Rex.
His pale blue eyes were calm.
Steady.
Unafraid.
âPlease,â he said quietly. âIâm just finishing my breakfast.â
Rex laughed even louder.
âYouâre sitting in the bossâs seat.â
The old man glanced toward Logan.
The biker president did not react.
He simply kept reading.
The old man nodded slowly.
âI didnât know.â
âWell,â Rex said, leaning closer, ânow you do.â
Then he slapped the coffee mug.
