The engines rumbled outside like thunder waiting to enter.

No one in the bar laughed now.

The biker stared at the SUVs, then back at the old man, suddenly unsure of the room he thought he owned.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The old man slowly lowered the phone.

His face stayed calm.

That was what frightened them most.

A door opened outside.

Men stepped out of the SUVs in dark coats, silent and organized, their headlights stretching long shadows across the rain.

One of the bikers in the back whispered, “No way…”

The mohawked biker snapped at him.

“What?”

But the man wouldn’t look up.

The old man brushed a tiny piece of glass from his sleeve.

“Your father knew my name.”

The biker’s face tightened.

“My father’s dead.”

“Yes,” the old man said. “Because he forgot who gave him mercy.”

The bar went colder than the rain outside.

The old man reached into his pocket again and placed a silver coin on the table.

Every biker saw it.

Every face changed.

The mohawked biker stepped back.

“That’s impossible.”

The old man finally stood, slow and steady.

The room seemed smaller when he did.

“I came here alone,” he said, “because I wanted to see if your father’s son had learned respect.”

He looked at the broken glass.

Then at the biker.

“You answered.”