One rainy Tuesday, a man named Silas Rourke rolled in a 1973 Norton Commando. It wasn’t just any Norton. It was a rusted skeleton, a ghost of a bike that had been pulled from a lake. The chrome was pitted like lunar soil, the wiring harness was a nest of blackened copper, and the engine was seized tighter than a drum.
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Tori stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the rain misting her face. She looked up at the flickering neon sign above the roll-up door: . One rainy Tuesday, a man named Silas Rourke
She called Silas.
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