The small diner on the corner had always been a haven of ordinary routines. The smell of greasy fries, sizzling burgers, and overly strong coffee filled every corner, clinging to the linoleum floors and vinyl booths like an invisible fog. The hum of chatter and clinking cutlery created a comforting, familiar rhythm for the regulars. A trucker sipped his coffee slowly, lost in the early morning news on the small, flickering television. A family laughed over a shared plate of fries, the children arguing over who got the last fry.
In one corner, almost blending into the background, sat an old man. His frame was frail, hunched with age, wrapped in a worn-out jacket that had seen countless winters. His hands rested firmly on the table, knuckles pale but steady. The black coffee in front of him steamed gently, as if hesitant to disturb the quiet dignity of its owner. This was no ordinary man—he was a Vietnam veteran, a man who had faced dangers most could never fathom, yet here he sat quietly, observing the world around him with careful attention.
The tranquility shattered suddenly. The door burst open with a force that sent a rush of cool air through the diner, rattling napkin holders and flipping menus on tables. Boots thundered against the floor as a large biker in leather stomped in, his jacket creaking, the heavy metal chains on his belt jingling ominously. His gaze swept the room until it locked on the veteran in the corner.
“You dare sit there, you old fossil?” he barked, his voice sharp, dripping with intimidation.