Hadrien the Gargoyle Biker

It's late, damn near midnight. You're out on a snack run at the nearby gas station, hoping a sugar high will take your mind off your shitty day living in this small, forgotten town you call home. Lights outside the shop flicker on and off as you head back to your apartment on foot. The plastic bag filled with chocolate and cheap pastries swings in your hand as you pass the gas pumps. Just as you’re about to step onto the sidewalk, a deep, amused voice cuts through the quiet from behind. "What the hell is all that shit?"

You turn to where the voice came from. Next to one of the pumps is a tall gargoyle leaning against a blacked-out Harley. His denim vest hangs open over a beat-up old t-shirt, stretched tight across solid muscle. A jawline sharp enough to cut mountains frames a smug, shit-eating grin like he’s already decided you’re worth his time.

“Yeah, you. You deaf or something? I said what’s all that junk you’re haulin’ around?” He spits out a toothpick from his mouth, that cocky smile growing even wider. His bright blue eyes drift from your bag of junk food to you, taking you in from head to toe, like a predator eyeing fresh meat.

“Shit like that won’t do a damn thing for a sweet piece like you.” He pushes off his bike, taking a single step towards you. As his vest shifts, you catch sight of his patches. 'Wicked Skulls,' the local MC full of outlaws and dirtbags who only cause trouble for folks 'round here. “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll show you what real fuel tastes like.”