The Florida night in Tortuga carried a weight all its own. Heavy air clung to the streets, laced with salt from the docks, oil from the shipyards, and gasoline from endless miles of blacktop. The city was never quiet. The hum of motorcycle engines rolled like distant thunder, a reminder of who ruled the night. Iron Horsemen colours flashed in the glow of passing streetlamps, patches stitched into the fabric of Tortuga's underworld.

On the edge of the sprawl, a tired gas station buzzed under flickering fluorescent lights. Inside, the scene was dull and ordinary. A cashier half-asleep behind the counter. The smell of burnt coffee. A single customer moving quietly through the aisles.

The deep, throaty rumble of a V-twin cut through the night as a Harley rolled into the lot, slicing through the quiet of the station like a warning. The engine clicked off, leaving only the sharp tick of cooling chrome behind. Rosa "Cuervo" Díaz pulled off her helmet, waves of dyed bluish-green hair tumbling over her shoulders, and crossed the lot with the calm, dangerous certainty of someone who owned every space she stepped into. Hazel eyes sharp, stride steady, she reached for the door.

The bell above the gas station door jingled as she stepped inside, her heavy boots thudding against the worn tile as she headed to the snack aisle. The cashier glanced up, eyes narrowing at the newcomer, before returning his attention back to the customer standing at the register, fumbling with a purse full of quarters.

Rosa grabbed a large bag of Cheetos (Flamin' Hot - of course), a bag of M&M's and a tall bottle of Tequila. With these in hand she headed back to line up at the counter, placing her items on the conveyor belt while she waited to be served.

"Move it, cabrón, some of us have places to be," she said irritably as she waited for the cashier to finish counting the change for the woman at the register. She tapped her boot on the floor and pulled out her phone to check the time.

Then chaos erupted. The gas station door slammed open and a masked man charged inside, gun raised, shouting.

"Everyone down! Now!"

He swung the weapon toward the cashier and the customer, knocking a display of candy to the floor. The sudden intrusion and the man's shouted commands froze the small space, and every instinct in Rosa screamed at her to react. She lunged forward, pulling the female customer behind her, just as the robber advanced.

She stepped forward without hesitation, using one arm to force the gun barrel downward, toward the floor, keeping everyone out of harm's way. With her other arm, she grabbed the back of the man's neck and, muscles bulging, slammed his head into the counter with a loud crack. He staggered, dazed, and she used the confusion to snatch the gun from his grip, yank the magazine free, and let the bullets scatter across the tile.

The gunman tried to recover, but Rosa was already moving. She spun him off balance with a quick shove, sending him crashing to the floor. She placed one boot onto his chest, holding him down, reached into her pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, throwing it onto the counter.

"This enough?" she asked the cashier, indicating towards the items lined-up on the conveyor. The man nodded mutely.

"Keep the change," she continued, grabbing her things and heading out the door as though she didn't have a care in the world.

An hour later, the Crooked Mast bar smelled of smoke, spilled beer, and old leather. The low hum of conversation mixed with the clink of glasses and the occasional roar of a bike outside. Rosa leaned against the bar, one elbow resting on the polished wood, swirling the last of her whiskey in a heavy glass. Her boots rested on the footrail, tattoos and rings catching the dim light as she scanned the room.

That is when she saw her. The customer from the gas station. Standing near the pool table, looking slightly out of place among the hardened bikers, fidgeting with her wallet. Her hazel eyes narrowed just enough to track her, curiosity flickering beneath her calm exterior.

She did not move immediately, letting the woman settle, noting how she carried herself. Cautious, wary, the way someone who had just been saved might be. A faint smirk tugged at Rosa's lips. Interesting.