The dimly lit sign on the bar flickered in the distance, a beacon in the darkness of late evening. “The Iron Horse” was emblazoned in letters that seemed to shine with a life of their own, casting an eerie glow over the wet pavement.
My legs carried me toward it on autopilot, as though drawn by some unseen force. The bar was a dive, the kind of place where the lost and the broken found solace in whiskey and shadows.
I hesitated for a moment, my hand on the heavy steel door, noticing the bikes lined up outside the building. The neon sign above the door cast an otherworldly glow on the blood staining my hands. I could feel it drying, tacky and cold against my skin.
The thought of walking in there, of facing people when I looked like this, sent a wave of dread crashing over me. But I had t
