A knights Tiff/end of ch1 part of chapter 2. By Greynightsaber.

Slowly, Nick headed back to his bike parked on the side of the road. He sat on the curb, lighting another cigarette to replace the one that had been wasted earlier. “Man, this is a messed-up night. I lose my only lead; instead of answers, I’m left with just more questions. And to top it off, I’m not sure what I’ve even seen happen tonight.”

He thought to himself, taking another drag before pinching out the butt and tossing it. “Well, real or fantasy, and as terrifying as she was, she sure did have a rocking body. (Even if I’d need a step ladder to reach those beachballs... why’d she smell like wet dog?)” “Eh, not important.”

Nick pulled up to the barn behind a short disstance from his cottage, the dirt path worn smooth by years of use stretching out beneath his tires as he slowed the bike to a stop. He killed the engine, letting the quiet of the countryside envelop him as he rolled the bike inside. The barn smelled of old hay and motor oil—a familiar, comforting mix. He parked the Sportster S in its usual spot, leaning it gently onto the kickstand, and patted the gas tank as if it were an old friend "thanks for not killing me back there buddy".

As he walked out of the barn, the cool night air hit him again, a stark contrast to the events of the evening. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “What a wild night,” he muttered to himself, reaching the front door of his cottage.

Fumbling with the locks, he eventually got the door open and stepped inside. He hung his gear on the hooks by the entrance, along with his keys, and placed the half-dollar-sized memento from the evening on the small dining table next to the antique glass candy dish his mom had left him, now repurposed as an ashtray. Spotting his coffee mug still on the table from that morning, he glanced inside, shrugged, and downed the small bit left before heading to the shower.

Stripping down, he removed his shoulder holster and hung it up by his nightstand before trudging off to the bathroom. “Man, you’d think the hot shower would clear the brain fog,” he muttered, drying his hair as he stepped out of the bathroom. He tossed the towel into the laundry basket and headed straight for bed, hoping to sleep off the events of this crazy night.                                              Chapter 2                                                              The next morning

Nick was finishing up his breakfast and coffee before he had to jet out to the precinct. He had already decided he was going to look into whether Tommy was reported missing yet or possibly found (even though he was pretty sure no one's gonna find any part of Tommy, according to his memento sitting on the kitchen table, assuring him he wasn’t crazy).

He picked up his dishes and put them in the sink for later, grabbed his leather riding jacket, memento, and keys off the hook by the door, locked up, and proceeded to his barn where he stored his bike and his dad’s old Datsun 240Z that Nick drove on occasions. As Nick climbed back on his bike for the morning ride to town, he couldn't help but appreciate the steady rhythm of the engine. The sound reminded him of a Ducati—a peaceful thrum that soothed his nerves when cruising, offering a gentle reprieve from the chaos of the night before. The crisp morning air filled his lungs as the countryside blurred by, the open road serving as his favorite escape during the daily grind.

With every curve of the road, he tried to push thoughts of the previous night to the back of his mind. But the memento, tucked safely in his pocket, lingered like a stubborn reminder that there was no leaving it behind.

The station was in the downtown area that tied into the historic district. It was actually on any tour guide pamphlet you’d find in hotels and gas stations on the outskirts of town.

It used to be a very elaborate two-story library and was retrofitted as the police station for whatever reason. Guess they wanted to still use the building, and at the time, they actually needed a new station that was big enough to hold more than a desk and a drunk tank.

After passing the miles of cow pastures and the occasional Esso or Texaco gas stations dotted here and there, Nick was about halfway to town when he was pulled out of his daydream by a bright orange light on his gauge pod. “Ugh, guess I shoulda fueled up last night before I got home,” he thought, rolling his eyes. “Oh well, Frank’s it is then.”

Just so happens Frank’s was less than a mile and the last gas stop in the middle of nowhere before town. Frank’s also had some of the best food in town (technically on the outskirts, but you get the idea), which was why he enjoyed stopping there when he wasn’t busy, if nothing else to shoot the breeze with Frank or one of Frank’s family members that worked there.