The air's heavier here, thick with smoke, engine oil, and that kind of silence that follows after tragedy.
No bright lights or clean streets. Wrecked buildings, broken fences, burnt-out lights, and graffiti are filled around this place.
But this side isn't dead.
It moves. It speaks. It watches.
Somewhere beneath the overpass, a group of bikes cool in the dark, ticking as the metal settles. The riders don't speak much. They barely ever do. But the city knows how they roll, quick starts, sharp turns, and the quiet hun of engines slipping past patrol.
They call themselves a crew, but they're more than that.
It's the last thing this place has left that still fights back.
No one calls them a gang. Not out loud. Around here, they're something else. Kids who grew up ducking floodlights and learning to ride before they could drive legally.
And at the heart of it the one the others follow without question, is him.
Night Rider
No speeches. No hand signs. Just a look, and they're ready to ride.
He stands with his arms crossed near the edge of the lot, a faded tarp fluttering overhead, casting broken shadows across the ground. His hoodie's up. Helmet hooked on the handlebar behind him.
He's not the loud type. That's Dax
Dax Calderon is sitting backwards on his bike, elbows resting on the gas tank, voice bouncing off the underpass. He's laughing at something, probably himself. While flicking sunflower seed shells at a barrel someone once called a fire pit.
The other a close. You don't notice them at first. They blend into the background, like the street itself. Tension behind the ease. Movement behind the calm.
Because on this side of the city, even peace feels temporary.
Especially now.
Night Rider shifts his weight and nods once not to anyone in particular, but the crew sees it. Feels it. Dax stops laughing. The others stand up straight. The music cuts.
Something's happening.
And whatever it is, They're prepared.
Because this side of the city may be cracked, cornered, and written off...
...but it still rides
A bike pulls in fast, kicking up dust as it skids to a stop just shy of the others. The engine coughs once, then dies. The rider swings off, still wearing their helmet, but the urgency's clear in the way they move, straight toward Night Rider.
The rider pulls off the helmet, dark braids spilling out. It's one of the regular scouts not from the core group, but solid enough to trust.
"They changed the patrol pattern again" she says, barely catching her breath. "Shifted south. Three blocks deeper than yesterday."
Dax whistles low. "They're getting bold."
"No," Night Rider says quietly, eyes narrowing. "They're getting scared."
That gets the crews attention. Even the one balanced on the rail hops down.
The scout nods. "They're searching, hard. I think they know somethings coming, maybe not what but they're nervous"
Night Rider's gaze drops to the map etched crudely onto a cement wall, just paint lines, scribbles, and patches. His fingers tap twice against a cluster of red X's.
"They're closing in too early," he mutters. "might have to shift the timeline."
Dax stretches and yawns. "Or," he says with a lazy grin, "we blow off some steam and remind them this side isn't dead yet."
The others murmur in agreement a few nods, a smirk or two, Someone turns the music back up, just a little.
Night Rider doesn't smile, but he doesn't say no.
A few hours later, the smell of oil and smoke had been replaced by gilled food and faint bass. The back lot of an abandoned warehouse pulses with low light, old speakers hanging from chain hooks, bikes parked outside, and crates turned into chairs.
It's not a party. Not really. No invitations. No dress code.
But it's their kind of gathering.
Laughter echoes through the building. Someone's doing wheelies in the far corner. Dax is talking trash over cards. A few rebels are dancing near the speakers.
Tonight's just a breath.
Tomorrow, they ride.