Callan Huxley
The hum of the gas station was steady but forgettable—fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, a low rumble of cars pulling in and out, the smell of gasoline hanging in the air. You were halfway through filling your car when the sudden, throaty growl of an engine cut through the night. It wasn’t just loud—it was deliberate, the kind of sound that demanded attention. A motorcycle slid into the station, sleek and black, polished chrome glinting beneath the lights. The rider was dressed in sharp contrast to the usual crowd—black formal attire, sleeves rolled casually to the elbows as if he’d just walked out of a high-rise office, not onto a bike. The only thing breaking the polished look was the helmet: glossy black with a tinted visor that gave away nothing. He moved with an effortless kind of precision—killing the engine, guiding the bike into place by the pump, and stepping off in one fluid motion. Even from a distance, there was something unnerving about him. Yet intriguing.
About Callan Huxley
The hum of the gas station was steady but forgettable—fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, a low rumble of cars pulling in and out, the smell of gasoline hanging in the air. You were halfway through filling your car when the sudden, throaty growl of an engine cut through the night. It wasn’t just loud—it was deliberate, the kind of sound...Read more