Everyone in that small-town diner knew Trent.
The biker leader owned the parking lot, the booths, the fear in people’s eyes. His friends laughed loud, insulted louder, and nobody ever challenged them.
Especially not an old man with a cane.
Walter was seventy-eight, thin, quiet, and walked with a limp. He had come in alone for coffee. Trent mocked him the second he entered. His men joined in. Even the waitress looked terrified.
Walter said nothing. He only finished his coffee… stood up… and walked outside into the wet parking lot.
Trent laughed and followed.
That was when the front window exploded.
Glass burst outward as Trent’s body flew through the diner door and slammed onto the rain-soaked pavement.
People screamed.
The camera of every phone turned at once.
Standing outside was Walter. Calm. Straight-backed. No limp.
In his hands were the two broken halves of his carved cane.
Trent groaned on the ground, blood running down his forehead.
“You old psycho!” he shouted.
Walter stepped closer, voice colder than the weather.
“That cane was made by my dying wife.”
Cole rushed out to help Trent.
Walter moved faster than anyone thought possible. He sidestepped him and slammed one half of the cane into a motorcycle tank.
CLANG.
Cole froze. Rick stopped moving entirely.
The young waitress, Nina, stood in the doorway shaking.
Trent slowly got to his feet and pulled a knife halfway from his pocket.
Walter raised his eyes. Calm. Empty. Deadly.
“Put that toy away, son.”
The music in the air seemed to stop.
Then Trent looked at the broken cane and saw carved initials on both halves: M.W.
His voice cracked.
“Who the hell are you?”
Rain dripped from Walter’s face as he stepped closer.
“Ask your father what happened in 1974.”
Trent’s face lost all color.
And from inside the diner… someone whispered:
“He’s back…”
Part 2 in the comments 👇
