I stood there for a second too long, staring at the bread, the coins, the distance between them, my throat tight with the effort of not collapsing right there in front of him, because once you cry, really cry, in a place like that, you lose the last scraps of dignity you’re holding onto.
I turned and left, the bell mocking me again as the door closed, and outside, the cold slapped me hard enough to steal my breath.
I slid down the brick wall beside the bakery, curling inward, my stomach twisting violently, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the concrete beneath me and the ache in my bones.
That was when the street began to vibrate.
At first, I thought it was another truck passing, but the vibration grew, layered, multiplied, until the sound hit me fully, a deep, thunderous roar that rolled through the street like an approaching storm, rattling the bakery windows behind me.
I looked up just as a line of motorcycles rounded the corner, massive machines gleaming black and chrome, engines synchronized in a way that felt intentional rather than coincidental, taking up the entire road, forcing cars to stop, their riders clad in leather jackets bearing a stark emblem: a black cross over a steel halo, the words BLACK COVENANT MC stitched beneath it.
Fear snapped through me instantly, sharp and electric, because you learned quickly on the street which dangers to anticipate, and biker gangs were firmly on the list of things you avoided at all costs, not because they were automatically violent, but because they operated by rules you didn’t understand, and misunderstanding was deadly.
I pressed myself against the wall, eyes down, willing myself to disappear.
The lead bike slowed.
A gloved hand rose.
