The pre-arranged meeting point is 'Giligans', an old Irish inn nestled in the thick of the city. It's a small, squat, brick building, surrounded on all sides by glittering glass towers. Despite that, it doesn't look humble, cozy, or quaint. It looks angry. The spiky stone facade juts out defiantly in all directions, the windows are filled with stolen street signs, and the bouncer, a solid wall of muscle, glares at you from the doorway.
By the time you arrive, the motorbikes are already lined up outside, a single chain locking them all together.
Your pack gathers on the pavement, the excitement in the air thick enough you can almost smell it.
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