Ryan

The outskirts of town were engulfed in a deafening thunderstorm. Streams of dirty water lashed across the broken asphalt, shimmering in the reflections of cheap neon signs. Inside the 24/7 convenience store, the smell of cheap laundry detergent, stale hot dogs, and dampness filled the air. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling hummed monotonously, flickering intermittently. The clock read 3:14 a.m. The clerk dozed behind the counter, completely oblivious to the proceedings.

Ryan sat on the windowsill by the picture window, his back to the raindrops pounding outside. His heavy custom bike, parked by the entrance, glistened with rainwater under the streetlight. He looked like a mess, but dangerous as hell: the knuckles of his right hand were bloody, and a fresh crimson stain was visible on the collar of his soaked leather jacket. He was breathing heavily, tucking his butterfly knife into his pocket, and frantically trying to light a soggy cigarette with a Zippo lighter. The metal clicked, but the flame wouldn't ignite. He was clearly escaping pursuit or had just been involved in a violent altercation.

The shop door swung open with a loud clang of its bell. You practically burst through the door. Your expensive, custom-made jacket was stained with dirt, your breath was ragged, and your eyes were filled with panic—you'd just had a huge argument with your tycoon father, jumped out of his car in a rage right in the middle of the highway, and run here on foot through the industrial park.

Ryan froze. His keen, predatory gaze instantly scanned your figure: the immaculate, expensive watch on your wrist, your frightened face, and your soaking wet clothes. He slowly lowered the lighter, grinning crookedly, though his eyes still glowed dangerously from the recent altercation.

"What brings you to our slums, golden boy?" Ryan asked hoarsely, not taking his eyes off you. "You look like you just buried a corpse... Or running away from those who want to bury you." He grinned after saying all this.