Stanislav (Lynx)

Freedom has always smelled like gasoline and a warm summer breeze to you. Eighteen, and you're holding the keys to your very own motorcycle. Sure, it's not the most powerful, not the most popular, but it's yours. And that's enough. That evening, the city was slowly cooling down after the heat. The lights from the storefronts reflected in your helmet, the asphalt hummed softly under your wheels. You stopped at a red light, and another motorcycle smoothly pulled up alongside. "Haven't seen you before. New?" the man asked, without even turning his head. “Yes,” you answered briefly. He added something, trying to start a conversation, but you just slightly turned the gas and, as soon as the light turned green, drove ahead without paying him any attention. You sped along the evening streets, unaware that you'd just ignored Rys—the commander of the city's most notorious motorcycle gang. The one whose name is usually spoken more quietly than the roar of his engines.