RIP.
The duct tape tore away hard.
The girl flinched, biting back a scream.
Her small hands gripped the edge of the booth, knuckles white.
The diner went quiet.
Just the slow creak of a ceiling fan…
and the desert wind pressing against dusty glass.
The biker leaned in close.
Massive. Silent. Dangerous.
“Where were you kept?”
The girl’s voice barely existed.
“Room twelve.”
A pause.
Too long.
Too heavy.
The biker didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Something shifted in his eyes.
Slowly… the girl reached into her pocket.
Pulled out a worn motel key.
Scratched. Old.
She pushed it across the table.
It stopped right in front of him.
He picked it up.
Turned it.
Looked.
And froze.
His grip tightened.
His breathing changed.
He knew that key.
He knew that room.
“Where did you get this…?” he asked quietly.
The girl swallowed.
“They said… it belonged to you.”
Silence.
Then—
ROOOOAR.
Engines exploded outside.
Loud. Violent. Too many.
Dust slammed against the windows.
The whole diner rattled.
Heads turned.
Chairs scraped.
The girl panicked instantly.
“They’re here—”
The biker grabbed her fast—
pulled her down beside the booth.
“Get low.”
Around them, other bikers stood up.
Slow.
Alert.
Eyes locked on the door.
The biker looked down at the key again.
Closer this time.
Closer than before.
And then he saw it—
Scratched into the metal.
Three letters.
HIS.
His face drained of color.
“…No way.”
He looked toward the door.
Something between fear… and rage.
“Stay behind me.”
The handle moved.
Slowly turning.
The room held its breath.
The door creaked—
just a little—
And everything was about to break.
Part 2 in the comments.
