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As Walter lifted his coffee cup, steady in routine but shaky with age, a man in his 30s stumbled in. His words slurred, his eyes glassy, and it was clear he’d been drinking long before noon. He looked around and fixed his gaze on Walter.
Walter, steady as ever, lowered his cup and replied with calm dignity, “Just minding my business, son.”
But dignity wasn’t enough for the man. With sudden aggression, he smacked Walter across the face. The diner went silent. Forks dropped, the waitress froze with her hand to her mouth, and the room filled with shock.
Walter didn’t fight back. His hands trembled not with fear, but with restraint. It was a quiet strength that only decades of service and wisdom could teach.
A Door Opens, and Everything Changes
Just then, the bell above the diner door jingled. A tall figure stepped in, wearing a leather vest marked with the unmistakable emblem of the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club. Behind him, several more bikers followed.
At first, the drunk man smirked, but that smirk disappeared the moment he saw the tall man’s face harden. This wasn’t just any biker. He was Walter’s son.
“Dad,” the biker’s voice cracked as he rushed forward, seeing the red mark on Walter’s cheek.
The thug’s arrogance melted into dread. He tried to back away, mumbling something about “just joking,” but the air in the room had shifted. Every biker’s eyes locked on him, their presence like a storm waiting to break.
