“Oh, we’ve got ourselves a tough guy here,” another one piped up. “What’s the matter, old‑timer, forget to take your meds this morning?”

Frank felt his jaw clench, but he kept his cool. He’d faced down worse than these punks in his time. “I’d appreciate it if you boys would step aside and let me pass,” he said evenly.

The lead biker leaned in close, his breath reeking of cigarettes and cheap beer. “Or what, Grandpa? You going to call the retirement home on us?”

Inside the diner, patrons had begun to notice the commotion outside. Rosie herself— a stout woman in her sixties who’d known Frank for years— was already reaching for the phone behind the counter.

Frank stood his ground, his weathered hands clenched at his sides. He’d served his country proudly, fought in wars these boys had only seen in movies. He wasn’t about to be pushed around by a bunch of hooligans with more ink than sense.