No one laughed.
No one moved.
Tank stared down at her.
The biggest, most feared man on the street—
and for a second—
he had no idea what to do.
The camera pushed closer.
The girl lifted the flowers toward him.
“These are for you.”
A beat.
“For me?”
His voice was rough.
Confused.
The girl tilted her head slightly.
“You look sad.”
Something shifted.
Behind him—
bikers who never went quiet—
stood completely still.
Tank’s shoulders dropped just slightly.
Like something heavy had finally been noticed.
He slowly bent down.
Closer to her level.
“My daddy says sad people need flowers.”
The words hit deeper than anything loud ever could.
Tank froze.
His hand moved slowly—
into his jacket.
Pulled out something worn.
Folded.
Old.
The camera pushed in—
a photograph.
A little girl.
Same age.
Same eyes.
Same face.
His breath broke.
“My baby…”
Silence wrapped around the entire street.
Then—
something snapped inside him.
Not loud.
But final.
He stood up fast.
Too fast.
Grabbed his radio.
Voice shaking—but sharp.
“Everybody ride. Now.”
The engines answered.
One by one—
then all at once—
exploding back to life like a storm.
A biker stepped forward, confused.
“…Tank… who is she?”
Tank didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
The camera crash-zoomed—
his face breaking—
the girl still holding the flowers—
waiting.
And just before he spoke—
Black.
Bass hit.
Part 2 in the comments.
