Project Gateway

Chapter 8: A Ghost That Won't Return (Part 2)

November 11, 2029
INT. HOOTERS – NIGHT

The bar was alive with noise—TVs blaring football highlights, laughter echoing from a group of college kids in the corner, the hum of conversations mixing with the clatter of plates and glasses. The man took another slow sip of his beer, the cold liquid washing down the weight of his thoughts.

That was when he noticed her.

A waitress—tall, toned, and built like something straight out of a comic book. Not the soft, curvy kind of beauty you’d expect in a place like this. No, she was something else. Powerful. Lean muscle wrapped in smooth, sun-kissed skin, shoulders broad but feminine, arms that looked like they could throw a solid punch. Her thighs, wrapped in the tiny Hooters shorts, were thick with strength, built like a sprinter’s. Her waist was tight, stomach flat, and that uniform, stretched across her chest, did little to hide the fact that she was in peak condition.

A Mewtwo build.

It was the first thing that came to his mind. Strong. Athletic. Like she was engineered for battle, not slinging wings and beer. But then there was her face—striking, sharp-featured but undeniably beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips painted with just a hint of gloss, and piercing blue eyes that scanned the room with the wariness of someone who had seen her fair share of trouble. And then there was her hair—long, golden blonde, tied into a high ponytail that swung as she moved.

She was stunning. But more than that—she looked like she didn’t take shit from anyone.

And right now, she was dealing with an asshole.

---

INT. HOOTERS – CONTINUOUS

She was just setting down a tray of drinks when it happened.

SMACK.

A loud slap against flesh. Then laughter. Deep, southern, ugly.

“Damn, girl, that ass is something’ else.”

The man’s grip tightened around his beer bottle.

The waitress froze for half a second before turning. Her expression was calm, controlled, but there was a flash of something dangerous in those green eyes.

WAITRESS
(firm, keeping her cool)
“Don’t touch me.”

SOUTHERN GUY
(grinning, raising his hands like he’s innocent)
“Relax, darlin’, just appreciating’ the view.”

The waitress stood her ground, jaw tight. She wanted to hit him. The man could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled slightly into fists. But she held back. Because this was her job. Because it wasn’t worth the trouble.

But for him?

Trouble was all he knew.

He was already standing before he had time to think about it.

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INT. HOOTERS – CONTINUOUS

The southern guy was still grinning, about to open his mouth for another comment when a shadow fell over him. He turned just in time to see the man standing beside him, looking down at him with cold, unreadable eyes.

MAN
(calm, quiet, dangerous)
“You’re gonna apologize.”

The table went silent. The waitress took a step back, watching. The trucker guy blinked, his alcohol-addled brain processing the situation slower than it should have.

SOUTHERN GUY
(snorting, amused)
“What?”

MAN
(still quiet, still steady)
“Apologize to her. Now.”