Sasha & Me

[Warscared]

The gin hit him like molten lead, and the room unfolded like a hall of mirrors. Walls bent, ceiling stretched, shadows danced—each one a voice, a jury, a prosecutor, a witness.


"You killed her!" The conscience appeared first, grotesque now, limbs elongated, eyes too wide, teeth too sharp. It pointed at Stephanie in memory, her bravery burning bright. "She trusted you! She loved you! And you—murderer!"


"Order," said a calm voice. WS’s rationality rose from the floor, smooth as silk, sliding through the chaos. "Let us hear testimony. Let the facts be presented, not just the scream of guilty sentiment."


Schopenhauer shuffled forward, hat askew, eyes like dark wells. "The world is suffering, blind, and cruel. His will acts without knowledge of consequence. Is it blameworthy to navigate a world of shadows?"


"Nonsense!" Plato shot back, robes flaring, staff raised. "A soul must be examined! Justice, forms, truth! Murder is a stain, no matter the blindness!"


WS smirked through his drunken haze. "Ah, but the form of justice shifts with circumstance, Plato. Consider the shadows, the ignorance. Must the child’s hand be condemned for not seeing the Rider’s hierarchy? For not knowing the Bible’s location?"


"Ignorance is no excuse!" the conscience screeched, morphing, growing multiple heads, mouths spewing guilt and grief. "The mother too! You slit her neck! How do you defend that? Huh? Explain that!"


"Factual context," WS said, waving like a lawyer. "I did not know. I could not know. Collin’s position, the Riders’ hierarchy—these were unknown variables. Probability favored deception. Survival demanded it."


"Survival?" Nietzsche’s shadow slinked in, grinning, thin mustache twitching. "What is survival but affirmation of will? Let him kill! Let him destroy! That is strength! Power is moral in itself!"


"No, you imbecile," the conscience hissed, tentacles of memory curling around his skull. "Power is meaningless when you betray the trust of the innocent! Of love itself!"


"And yet," WS said, swirling gin, "Schopenhauer said the world is suffering, blind, cruel. The intent was calculated, but the consequence was unknowable. Fate dealt the hand. My hand played it rationally."


"Rationally?" Plato snapped, spinning, staff stabbing air. "Rationality without virtue is tyranny. Murder is tyranny, regardless of circumstance!"


"Ah, but virtue is a luxury in a world of shadows!" WS’s voice rang, weaving their arguments, cross-examining. "Plato, you argue forms, but even your cave prisoners act blind! Nietzsche, you glorify power—but the power to act without consequence does not absolve morality. Schopenhauer, you see suffering—yes, and I act within it, not for pleasure, but survival, justice, and inevitability!"


The conscience shrieked, twisting into something impossibly tall and thin. "And Stephanie? Her love, her trust, her sacrifice? Are those shadows too, philosopher? Tell me they were shadows!"


"Perhaps," WS said, voice low, a sneer in it, "or perhaps they were the brightest lights my shadowed mind could not bear. She gave me everything, and I… I could not accept the gift. Knowledge was incomplete, the Bible unknown. Had I known… had I known, perhaps she would have lived. But the moment passed, and the calculus of survival demanded action."


The room spun faster. Schopenhauer muttered, shrugging. Plato jabbed the air with his staff. Nietzsche laughed, sharp and cruel. The conscience writhed, screeching, clawing at memory, at love, at trust. And WS, gin dripping from his lips, smiled faintly in the chaos, orchestrating the circus: cross-examining shadows, twisting arguments, justifying the unthinkable.


"Let the jury of ghosts decide," he murmured. "I am not innocent. I am not guilty. I am… inevitable."


The philosophers argued themselves into madness. The conscience screamed itself hoarse. And WS, drunk, rational, remorseless, sank into the abyss of thought, the circus spinning endlessly, each circle a question with no answer, each voice a witness that could never reach judgment.


Ravenscode – My Escape tore through the speakers, each riff a knife twisting in his skull. Gin sloshed in the glass, sticky on his fingers, but he barely noticed. The world outside had melted to black, leaving only the music and the unbearable knot of thought in his chest.


He lifted the phone, voice cracking before he even spoke. “Nami… I need… Sasha’s number.”


There was a pause. Then Nami’s voice, sharp and incredulous, slicing through the haze. “You’ve been missing for three months, Warscared, and this is what you call reaching out? You don’t say hello? You don’t ask how I’m—”


“I… please,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. Gin burned down his throat, dulling the edges of shame but never erasing it. “I… just… please.”


“Please?” Nami barked, exasperation flaring. “Please what? So you can—”


He shut his eyes, the guitar screaming in perfect resonance with the chaos in his mind. He couldn’t explain. There were no words that would make sense. He wanted her—wanted Sasha—but not in any way that Nami could understand. It was instinct, raw and relentless, a craving that refused to let go.


Nami ranted, furious, incredulous, and he listened, half-drowned in the music and the gin, letting her words crash over him while the only truth he could grasp was that he could not get her out of his mind.


And so he stayed there, the world reduced to distorted riffs, trembling hands, and a single, desperate thought repeating in his head: I need her number… I need her…


The motel room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering neon sign outside, painting jagged stripes across the cracked walls. WS sat slouched against the counter, half-empty bottle of gin dangling loosely in one hand. Ravenscode’s My Escape played low on the speaker, the distorted guitar and aching vocals weaving into the haze around him. He drained the last of the liquid and tossed the bottle aside, the clatter echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.


His phone trembled in his other hand. He stared at it, his reflection fractured across the cracked screen, blue eyes dark and reflective. After three long months of silence, one name burned in his mind, insistent, impossible to shake. He pressed the dial.


“Nami,” he croaked when she picked up, voice hoarse and cracking.


“Warscared,” she said sharply, surprise cutting through her words. “You’ve been missing for three months! And—wait—why are you calling me for her number?”


“I need Sasha’s number,” he said, blunt, as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world. His lips trembled, a tear escaping down his cheek. “Please, Nami.”


“What… what for?” she asked, incredulous, the exasperation in her voice thick enough to choke on.


His mind fought to explain, to rationalize, but all he could hear was the insistent pulse of the song in the background and the weight of memory pressing down. “Instinct,” he finally admitted, voice cracking further. “I… I can’t get her out of my mind. I… I need her.”


Nami’s reply was a tirade, anger, disbelief, fear, and exasperation all rolled together. She reminded him of the impossibility, the danger, the sheer absurdity of asking her for a number under these circumstances. But WS didn’t listen. He sat back, closing his eyes, letting the shame and craving settle in, numbing himself in the echo of Ravenscode.


After a long silence, he spoke again, quieter this time, almost to himself:


“I don’t know what I’ll be tomorrow,” he said, voice low, steady despite the tears. “But consider this a warning, not a threat.”


He didn’t clarify, didn’t explain. The words hung in the room, heavy, precise. Not a promise of violence, not a plea for understanding—just a statement of inevitability. The kind of inevitability that left no room for argument, only the cold acknowledgment that some truths could not be escaped.


He hung up, letting the phone clatter against the counter. The song swelled in the background, distorted and beautiful, and WS sank lower into himself, pondering the decisions that had led him here—the women he’d lost, the violence he’d unleashed, and the desire that had become his shadow.


For one brief moment, he let himself mourn what could have been. Then he reached for the bottle again, taking another swig, letting the oblivion wrap around him like an old friend.


The screen buzzed again. A message.


Don’t do anything stupid. Nojiko is banging on my door telling me to go to sleep and stop shouting, and Vidal is yelling from the next room… it’s 4 a.m.


WS froze. His thumb hovered over the screen, eyes wide in the dim neon glow. She is my friend. Don’t ruin this for me.


He blinked, the alcohol and exhaustion coiling in his chest like a snake. The message cut through the haze of desire, the impulsive need that had driven him to call Nami. Every rational thought he had fought to suppress—the logic, the caution, the faint echo of conscience—now snapped sharply into focus.


The number on the screen glowed, tempting and impossible, a lifeline wrapped in a warning. He exhaled, shaky, and leaned back against the counter. The sound of Nojiko’s pounding and Vidal’s yelling from the next room seemed distant, muted by the weight of the message and the music still grinding in his ears.


He swallowed hard, letting the words sink in. Some lines, even in his chaos, could not be crossed. Some impulses had to be contained. The craving for Sasha, the frantic need, the compulsion—all of it was real. But Nami’s warning tethered him, reminded him of the cost of acting recklessly.


WS’s hand trembled as he clutched the phone. He let the music swallow the room, the number, the moment, and sank into the silence, trying to drown the storm within him with nothing but the cold clarity of the warning: She is my friend. Don’t ruin this for me.


The call rang endlessly. WS’s grip on the phone was tight, knuckles white, heart hammering. Every ring felt like the slow march of time punishing him for some unseen sin. When it finally clicked, a faint, sleepy voice answered.


“Who is this? You do realize it’s impolite to call at this hour…”


WS’s throat felt dry, raw. Rationally, he knew this was absurd—who calls someone at four in the morning? But his instinct overrode reason. “Sasha?”


There was a pause. The voice trembled, swallowed. “…Yes.”


He froze for a heartbeat, mind spinning. Guilt clawed at him, accusing: Why are you doing this? She could hate you. You have no right. You’re the same as the cowards you despise.


Then rationality fired back, cool and measured: You’re not harming her. You’re speaking a truth that matters. It’s rare, necessary. Proceed carefully, precisely.


He let the silence hang, then poured everything out, words tumbling like a dam breaking. “Five days ago, I… I lost someone. Someone I never realized I cared about until it was too late. And I… I was afraid something might happen to you without you knowing you’re truly special. From my point of view… the world would be poorer without you. And your half-smiles—they’re like a new sunrise. I can’t hope to see your full smile again… but it’s something worth holding on to, just for the possibility that I might witness such beauty. Why do you never smile? I’m… sorry for imposing on your sleeping time, but I was panicking. Maybe you didn’t know… because this world is full of cowards who can’t speak what’s on their mind. And I was afraid I might be one of them… so I had to call.”


His voice caught. He paused, swallowed hard. Rationality whispered: Enough. You’ve overexposed. Retreat before you frighten her.


But the guilt was relentless: You might never get another chance to say this. She deserves to hear it now, or the opportunity is lost.


“…I’m sorry. I just had to unload what’s been my most recent existential crisis.”


A trembling, barely audible “Okay…” came from the other end.


“I… I heard a new artist recently. If you’re willing, I’d like to share one of his songs with you.”


“Sure,” Sasha whispered, still uncertain who this wacko on the line could be.


And in that moment, WS was no longer the man weighed down by mistakes and regrets. He was the boy he once was, eight years old, back in the half-lit room of a long-ago afternoon. Nojiko had stripped Vidal of half his lunch money on some silly excuse, gathered all the savings, and bought him a guitar. The strings had smelled faintly of pine and polish. He’d been nervous then, clumsy, fumbling for chords, every note a tiny triumph.


He strummed now, rusty fingers finding their way by instinct, memory guiding him. Guilt and reason dissolved into the music. He sang softly, letting the melody carry the truths he couldn’t say with words:


Nathan Wagner – Kiss Under the Rain.


Every note was both an apology and a confession. Every pause held a fragment of his childhood wonder, the boy who believed music could fix everything, if only for a moment.


On the other end of the line, somewhere in the dark, Sasha listened. She heard the fragility, the weight, the longing—all threaded through a melody and a voice that trembled between past and present. And for once, WS let himself believe that the world might be just a little brighter, if only she could feel it too.


WS’s voice cracked one last time. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I had… issues I needed to resolve.”


Click.


The line went dead.


On the other end, Sasha sat frozen, phone in hand. Her mind struggled to process what had just happened. The voice—fragile, intense, almost unhinged—had said things she hadn’t expected to hear from a complete stranger. Slowly, she decided the safest course: block the number. Better to be safe than risk another unpredictable four a.m. call.


Meanwhile, WS leaned back, chest heaving with a strange, manic exhilaration. Ecstatic. Who said drunk calls in the middle of the night always ended in disaster? He’d done it. He’d spoken the truth. He’d survived the unraveling of his own mind, even if only in half-drunken bursts.


A thought struck him. Smiling faintly, he fumbled for his phone and typed a short message:


“Thanks for listening to a 16-year-old boy’s foolish rants.”


He hit send.


The phone immediately displayed the dreaded notification: Message not delivered – recipient has blocked you.


WS shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Oh well,” he muttered to himself, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “At least I said what I had to say. Better than leaving it to uncertainty.”


For once, the night’s chaos felt purposeful.


WS finally let the adrenaline drain from his veins. He unplugged every phone in the apartment, silencing the world that had been spinning too fast. Reckless, yes—but necessary.


He remembered, half-lucidly, the little tricks he had used over the years: a pencil to jimmy open a safe, a chair pressed against the door to hide behind, gloves on whenever he touched books—both because of obsession, both because The Name of the Rose had taught him that caution was a form of respect. Every meticulous habit, every paranoid precaution, had led him here, to this rare moment of calm.


He collapsed onto the couch and didn’t move. Two full days passed in heavy, dreamless sleep, the apartment quiet around him.


Somewhere deep in that haze, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. Speaking with Sasha—even for a brief, disjointed call—was worth more than five sessions with Amber, more than any attempt to untangle the messy corridors of his mind through forced therapy. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t orderly, but it was real.


And for once, that was enough.

 

[Warscared]

Nami squinted at Sasha as they walked through the college gates. “Did… did anyone call you yesterday?”


Sasha shrugged, still half-lost in thought. “I… I talked to Robin before I went to sleep. Nothing important, really. Why?”


Nami exhaled, relief spilling out. “Thank God, little brother, for not being an asshole.”


Before Sasha could ask what she meant, Bella appeared behind Nami, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Thank God, my ass. That asshole has his five phones turned off and hasn’t picked up in six days!”


Nami groaned, burying her face in her hands. “And here I was, thinking maybe he’d finally grown a soul.”


Sasha tilted her head, frowning. “Wait… you don’t see Vidal like, literally every day? And why would he need five phones?”


Bella froze, blinking at her as if Sasha had just asked why the sky was blue. She opened her mouth, almost blurting out, “the attractive one”, before catching herself and reframing it with a careful exhale: “The… younger one.”


Nami snorted, shaking her head. “Yeah, she means WS. And yes, he has… complicated reasons for the phones. Let’s just say they’re all absolutely necessary.”


Sasha hummed softly, still puzzled but letting it go, her mind caught somewhere between curiosity and that inexplicable lift she’d felt earlier—her memory of last night hazy, but the warmth lingering like sunlight on her skin.


Nami leaned toward Bella, her eyes narrowing. “Listen, if you even think about messing with this family… WS will literally murder you. No exaggeration.”


Bella’s eyes widened, half in shock, half in amusement. “Whoa, okay! I get it. He’s… intense.”


Nami’s glare didn’t soften. “Intense doesn’t even cover it. Don’t test him. Trust me.”


Sasha, still humming faintly, glanced between them, her curiosity piqued but her instincts telling her to stay silent. She could feel the weight of the unspoken rules in this small exchange—how serious Nami was, and how much danger someone could be in if they misstepped.


Sasha’s soft humming floated down the corridor as she spotted Robin and Ayuah. Without thinking, she ran toward them and threw her arms around them in a sudden, almost desperate hug.


The two of them froze for a moment, surprised, while everyone else in the corridor stopped and stared, whispering among themselves. Some raised eyebrows, others just gawked, trying to piece together what had caused this sudden display.


Sasha didn’t care. For a brief instant, she felt lighter, as if the weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying had lifted just enough to let her move. Her eyes sparkled faintly, and even without understanding exactly why, those around her could sense that something inside her had shifted.


Nami and Bella exchanged looks, Nami’s frown deepening while Bella’s curiosity peaked. Both knew something had changed—but what, exactly, was still a mystery.


Ayuah straightened, her voice ringing out through the corridor. “Finally! You have learned my true value—and it feels good to be appreciated!”


Sasha blinked at her, still holding onto Robin. Robin frowned, glancing between them. “Wait… what’s going on?” he asked, clearly confused.


Sasha’s lips quivered, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners. She didn’t answer right away. The words echoed in her mind, mingling with the memory of the song she had hummed and the strange, unexpected call from the night before. For the first time in a long while, she felt truly seen—and even without fully understanding why, it left her humming softly, a tiny warmth spreading through her chest as she released Robin and Ayuah from her hug.


The corridor buzzed with whispers and curious glances. Nami shook her head subtly at Bella, who still looked dumbfounded, while Sasha walked a few steps forward, lost in the quiet glow of a spirit unexpectedly lifted.


Sasha, still humming softly, followed Nami and Bella down the hall. Nadjia had joined them, her curiosity piqued by the sudden shift in Sasha’s demeanor. The four of them gathered near a quiet corner, Sasha clutching her books a little tighter, still lost in the warmth of her own thoughts.


Just as Nadjia leaned in to ask what had happened, Vidal appeared at the end of the corridor, arms crossed. “Hey—why didn’t you wait for me?” His tone carried that usual mix of irritation and expectation, the kind that made everyone tense up instantly.


Bella didn’t even look up from Sasha. With a sharp tilt of her head, she said, “We’re busy. You should piss off.”


Vidal blinked, clearly not used to being talked back to in that way, but the way Bella said it left no room for argument. He grunted, muttering something under his breath, and stalked off, leaving the girls to their little circle.


Sasha let out a quiet laugh, almost imperceptible, as Nadjia shot Bella a questioning glance. “What just happened?” Nadjia asked, trying not to smirk at the older brother’s frustrated retreat.


Bella shrugged, smirking herself. “Nothing you need to worry about. Let’s just say… some people need a reminder that the world doesn’t revolve around them.”


Nami turned to Bella with a sharp glance. “Be more considerate,” she said, her tone carrying both warning and exhaustion. “You think this is a joke? The last conversation with Nojiko didn’t go well, and whatever happened six days ago still hasn’t settled with the younger one. Don’t make it worse.”


Bella rolled her eyes but didn’t retort; she knew when Nami was serious. The memory of Nojiko’s stress—spilled over the remaining siblings, the worry for the little one, the tension from the disrupted sleep last night when WS had called demanding favors—still hung in the air. Everyone had slept badly, hearts pounding, unsure what WS might have asked or demanded in his drunk haze.


Before Nami could respond further, Vidal stepped between them, arms crossed and a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “Hold on,” he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “It wasn’t WS’s fault that someone just starts screaming in the middle of the night and wakes everyone up. He’s being blamed because that’s easy, but you can be sure I’m telling the truth here.”


Bella blinked, caught off guard. Nami’s eyes narrowed, skeptical but unwilling to argue in front of Vidal’s certainty. Even the tension from Nojiko’s earlier stress seemed to pause under Vidal’s confident tone.


Sasha, blissfully unaware of the tension behind her, floated through the campus toward the cafeteria, a small, contented smile tugging at her lips. She let the corridor chatter and the minor family dispute pass over her like water off a duck’s back. All she wanted was a cappuccino—and maybe a moment of normalcy.


Meanwhile, Nami, Nadjia, Ayuah, Bella, and Robin exchanged quick glances. Without a word, they converged on Vidal, who was still lingering like a bad scent, and collectively shooed him out of earshot. “Go annoy someone else,” Nami muttered, earning a grumble from Vidal, but he complied, disappearing down the hallway.


Once the coast was clear, the five girls slipped into the nearest bathroom, closing the door with a sense of conspiratorial urgency. “Okay, what the hell is going on with Sasha?” Nadjia whispered, leaning against the sink.


Robin, ever the practical one, raised an eyebrow. “I have no clue, but she looks… different. Happier, almost like she’s in her own little world.”


Ayuah crossed her arms, frowning thoughtfully. “It’s more than that. She’s smiling, actually smiling, and it’s not forced. Something’s changed.”


Bella, glancing at Nami, added, “And it’s not like she’s faking it for anyone. This is genuine. But what could possibly…?” She trailed off, glancing at Robin, who shrugged.


Nami, tapping her fingers nervously, broke the silence. “We need to figure this out before it blows up in her face. Something happened yesterday, and I don’t know what it is—but it’s clearly big enough to shift her entire mood.”


The girls exchanged tense, excited glances. The bathroom suddenly felt smaller, charged with the unspoken urgency of the mystery: whatever had Sasha smiling like this, they all knew it was worth finding out.


Bella frowned, leaning against the bathroom counter. “Wait, what’s up with WS? He used to call to… you know, check on Vidal every single day. But six days ago, nothing. And now all his phones are off?”


Nami let out an exasperated sigh. “He’s probably passed out drunk somewhere. He called me last night… completely off his ass. Crying, rambling… it was a mess.”


Robin tilted her head, curious. “Wait, crying? Rambling about what?”


Nami shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know all the details. He just… he panicked about someone, I think. Couldn’t stop talking. He sounded insane, honestly, but at the same time, it was… WS being WS. I’m just glad he didn’t destroy anything—or anyone—this time.”


Ayuah shook her head. “Classic him. Always making everyone worry. Even when he’s not directly causing chaos, he manages to stir the pot.”


Bella glanced at the others, concern flickering in her eyes. “I just… I hope he’s okay. But six days? That’s… a lot, even for him.”


Nadjia smirked slightly. “Knowing WS, he’s probably passed out, thinking he’s solving the world’s problems in his sleep.”


The girls shared a small, tense laugh, but underneath it, the worry for WS lingered. Whatever he had done—or been doing—was clearly more than a little reckless, and the mystery of his disappearance for nearly a week hung heavy in the air.


Robin gently pulled Bella aside, lowering her voice. “Is this… is this why you’ve been acting like a bitch lately? Because of not getting his phone actions?”


Bella froze, her eyes widening. “Wait… how do you know about that?” Her voice trembled a little, caught between shock and defensiveness.


Robin shrugged, trying to look casual but failing. “I… I just notice things. Patterns. People don’t usually hide that much without reason.”


Bella’s mind raced. She swallowed and then, slowly, realization dawned. The memory hit her—the time she had shown Sasha who the dick preferred. The weight of it settled on her shoulders, and she exhaled sharply, half in frustration, half in understanding.


“…Oh.” Bella muttered, her voice quieter now, almost to herself. “So that’s what tipped you off.”


Robin gave a small nod, a hint of sympathy in her eyes. “Sometimes it’s obvious if you know where to look. Don’t take it too hard—just… maybe be more careful next time.”


Bella gave a rueful half-smile, still stunned, still processing—but the piece of the puzzle had clicked into place.


Ayuah, who had been lingering nearby, caught fragments of Bella and Robin’s hushed exchange. Her eyes lit up with mischievous suspicion.


“She’s definitely getting it on the side,” Ayuah declared loudly, cutting through the whispers.


The group froze for a moment. Nami shot Ayuah a glare sharp enough to slice glass. “Ayuah!” she hissed. “Do not say things like that!”


Robin pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated. “Seriously? That’s your conclusion from half a conversation?”


Bella, still processing, blinked rapidly, caught between mortification and disbelief. “Ayuah… where the hell are you coming up with that?”


Ayuah shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “I mean… it makes sense, right? She’s acting all giddy, humming songs, hugging people… come on!”


Sasha, blissfully unaware of the chaos she’d sparked, continued down the corridor, sipping her cappuccino, the corners of her mouth curling into a serene half-smile.


Nami groaned, running a hand through her hair. “This is going to get messy if we don’t shut her up. Seriously, Ayuah, zip it!”


Robin crossed her arms, frowning. “If she was doing anything on the side, she would have told me last night. During our… you know, daily talks. But she didn’t. She was completely normal—no giddiness, no humming, nothing. This morning, she shows up like some happy-go-lucky version of herself. Something’s off.”


Bella shrugged, a little pale. “Could be mental. Maybe she’s… I don’t know… just losing it a little. Or stress. Or—” She faltered, glancing at the others. “Or maybe something else happened that changed her mood overnight.”


Nami stayed silent, biting her lip. Her mind kept drifting back to last night… to WS. Did he really call? She didn’t know for sure, but the thought made her stomach twist. She didn’t speak up yet, just watched Sasha’s carefree stride from the bathroom mirror reflection, trying to reconcile it with what she thought she knew.


Ayuah, unable to hold her curiosity, leaned forward. “Well, whether it’s mental illness or someone doing… stuff… we have to figure out why she’s like this. This isn’t her normal.”


The girls exchanged looks, the tension growing, while Sasha—entirely oblivious—hummed softly in the cafeteria, unknowingly driving the rest of them mad with speculation.


Nadjia’s eyes flicked toward Nami, sharp and curious. “Wait a second… you’ve got that frown again,” she said, leaning closer. “You know something, don’t you? And you’re just not telling us.”


Nami’s lips pressed into a thin line. She hesitated, glancing at the others, weighing whether to spill anything. “I… I don’t think it’s my place,” she murmured, her voice low.


Ayuah scoffed, leaning back. “Oh come on, Nami. We’ve been through enough to know when someone’s holding back. Don’t make it worse by keeping quiet.”


Bella crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Either tell us, or admit you don’t know anything. Stop giving us that ‘I’m hiding a secret’ vibe—it’s infuriating.”


Nami just swallowed, her thoughts flickering to WS and the call from last night. She stayed silent, her frown deepening, while Nadjia gave her a pointed look that said she wasn’t buying the excuse.


Nadjia leaned closer to Nami, eyes sharp. “Wait a sec… that frown again. You know something, don’t you? Spill it.”


Nami’s throat tightened. She hesitated, then shook her head slightly. “I… I don’t think it’s my place.”


Ayuah snorted. “Oh, come on. We can see when someone’s hiding something. Don’t make it worse by keeping quiet.”


Bella leaned in, impatient. “Yeah, either tell us or stop pretending. This ‘I know but I won’t say’ act is driving me nuts.”


Nami’s mind raced. He… he did call… last night. Her frown deepened, and Nadjia’s gaze pinned her like a hawk. “It’s nothing,” Nami said finally, forcing calm.


“Nothing, huh?” Nadjia pressed. “You sure about that? Because if it was nothing, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be this tense.”


Nami’s jaw tightened. She didn’t answer, just glancing at the others, knowing that even though Sasha wouldn’t suspect anything, what happened last night was a secret only she and WS held.


Nadjia flipped open her notebook and highlighted a section with a yellow marker—boldly marking a big W on the page. She squinted at it, tapping her pen against her lip. “Okay… after analyzing all this,” she said, voice dripping with mock seriousness, “bullshit. WS does whatever he wants. Always has, always will. That’s his baseline.”


Ayuah laughed, nearly spilling her cappuccino. “Exactly. So whatever’s got Sasha all chipper this morning? Odds are it’s WS. No one else could pull that off.”


Bella frowned, crossing her arms. “You mean that drunk call? No way that was him… he never does things like that.”


Nadjia smirked, turning the notebook so the others could see her notes. “Oh, he does, just not when it’s convenient for anyone else. That’s WS logic for you. He acts first, explains never… or later, if he feels like it.”


Nami stayed quiet, cheeks warm. She knew the truth, but the others didn’t—and for now, it was safer that way.

 

[Warscared]

Ayuah slipped in behind Bella without warning, looping an arm loosely — but deliberately — around her neck.
It looked friendly enough for anyone passing by, but Bella knew better — Ayuah’s touch always came with an undertone of challenge.


She leaned in close, her voice low and teasing, but sharpened with curiosity.
“You’re gonna tell me why you’ve been so on edge lately,” she murmured, lips almost brushing Bella’s ear.


Bella rolled her eyes. “I’m not on edge.”


“Oh, please,” Ayuah said, giving her a playful squeeze that was just a little too firm. “Everyone’s noticed. You disappear into your car for those special phone calls, come back with that little smirk… and now the girls don’t even want rides from you anymore.”


Nadjia, standing nearby with her arms folded, smirked. “Because they don’t want to be stuck sitting in… whatever mood you left in.”


Ayuah grinned wickedly but kept her grip on Bella. “So, you gonna make me guess who’s on the other end of those calls, or are you finally gonna let us in on the secret?”


Ayuah still had her arm hooked casually but possessively around Bella’s neck when she tilted her head toward Nadjia.


“Hey, Human Lie Detector,” Ayuah said with a sly grin, “we’re gonna need your services. My best friend here has been keeping secrets from us, and that’s not very sisterly of her.”


Nadjia’s brow arched, already reading Bella’s tense jaw like a map. “Oh, I’m listening.”


Ayuah glanced over her shoulder toward Robin and Nami. “You two keep an eye on Sasha. Me and Nadjia? We’re gonna have a very serious talk with Bella.”


The way Ayuah said serious carried that deliberate edge — the kind that was part joke, part warning.


Nami, half-Japanese and attuned to subtleties, caught the undertone immediately. She smiled, a little too sweetly, and waved almost mockingly. “Bye, Bella.”


Bella shot her a look, but Nami had already turned away.


Robin stayed where she was, quiet, but her eyes said plenty. She had seen the early chat logs — back when Sasha was still obsessed with WS — and knew exactly which “mystery man” was making Bella act like this.


Bella, for once, had nothing to say.


Bella raised both hands in a mock surrender, lips curling into a wry smirk.
“Alright, alright — I’ll explain,” she said, like someone making a deal with the cops in a movie.


Nadjia smiled faintly. Not the smug kind of smile, but the sort that said she was glad this wouldn’t require her to switch her talent on. Observing people was second nature to her — but when she really pushed herself, it could drain her until she felt wrung out and hollow, leaving her unable to write a single decent line for two days. The toll could be knackering.


She much preferred to keep her emotional reserves intact and let people spill their own truths. Bella volunteering to talk meant Nadjia wouldn’t have to burn through herself to dig it out.


Ayuah, still hooked around Bella’s neck, grinned like a wolf. “Good girl. Now let’s hear it — nice and clear.”


Bella sighed, shoulders slumping as if she’d just decided to surrender to a firing squad. Without a word, she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and unlocked it.
She scrolled for a second, then turned the screen toward Ayuah and Nadjia — the chat log already open.


WS. The name sat at the top like it carried its own gravity.


“Here,” Bella said quietly, eyes flicking between them. “Just… don’t judge me too hard, alright?”


Ayuah’s smirk deepened, almost predatory, as she leaned in to read. Nadjia, meanwhile, kept her face neutral, not because she didn’t care — but because she knew the smallest expression could make people clam up.


Bella’s thumb hovered over the edge of the phone, like she might snatch it back if she saw the wrong look cross their faces.


Before Bella could think twice, Ayuah’s hand shot out like a hawk snatching prey.


“Mine now,” she said, already pivoting on her heel so Nadjia could lean in over her shoulder.


The two of them huddled together, the phone cupped like it was a glowing treasure map, their heads almost bumping as they scrolled.


Gasps.
Low chuckles.
A drawn-out, “Whoooa… what the actual—” from Ayuah.


Nadjia’s brows went up at certain lines, her lips parting in silent disbelief before she bit down on a grin. Ayuah was less discreet, muttering half-formed exclamations as though she were reading forbidden scripture.


Bella just crossed her arms and rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “Glad you’re enjoying yourselves,” she said flatly.


Bella’s best friend, Ayuah, had always had her back. The Van Hallens and the Zanes were welded at the hip, their families tangled in so many joint business ventures it was sometimes hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Had Ayuah been born a boy, Bella’s father would probably have forced her into marriage with her—he still might ask, since Ayuah’s curiosity had never been limited to just one side of the fence.


They were both street racers, and though Bella was the better driver—something that came with the occasional, slightly irritating “Asian driver” joke—Ayuah never let her pride get in the way. She was always the loudest voice in the crowd when Bella’s car roared across the finish line.


That was before Bella had made the mistake of dating Vidal.


That boy worshiped the ground she walked on, and everyone assumed she dominated him. But the truth—now being exposed to her two best friends—was far more complicated. In reality, she enjoyed a strong hand putting her in her place. It went beyond reason, how a kid two years younger than her had managed to unlock that submissive side of her personality.


Ayuah’s eyes widened as she scrolled through Bella’s phone, disbelief etched on her face. “Wait… you like being treated like that? Seriously?”


Bella shot her a mock glare, but before she could answer, Nadjia leaned over, smirking. “Oh, come on, Ayuah,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s not about the treatment itself. It’s about who’s doing the treating.” Her eyes danced with amusement as she tapped Bella lightly on the shoulder. “Honestly, your little light BDSM streak? That’s barely one step above vanilla. I’ve seen toddlers with more edge.”


Bella rolled her eyes, half embarrassed, half amused, while Ayuah blinked at Nadjia, processing the jab. Nadjia just shrugged, clearly enjoying the shock value, while Ayuah tried—and failed—to hide her grin.


Even in mockery, the truth of it all was starting to settle in: whatever it was that WS had unlocked in Bella, it wasn’t just about control—it was him.


Ayuah glanced at Nadjia, a mischievous glint in her eye. “One day, we’re going to get our hands on your journal and discover all the dirty little secrets you hide.”


Nadjia leaned back, unfazed, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “I don’t show it,” she replied calmly, “not out of shame… but because two young maidens like you might fall into the abyss of depravity that is my inner world. I keep it to myself because I love you both too much to let that happen.”


Ayuah blinked, caught between admiration and mock horror, while Bella just let out a quiet laugh, feeling oddly reassured despite the chaos of revelations around them.


Ayuah stepped closer to Bella, the playful teasing in her expression gone. “Why did you break your promise to share everything with me? Aren’t we still best friends?” Her hands framed Bella’s face gently, earnestness in every gesture. “Ever since you started dating Vidal, you barely have time for me… and when you do, he’s always there. I love you, Bella. You are my best friend—please don’t shut me out.”


Nadjia, watching from the side, felt a twinge of curiosity. She wondered if Ayuah might kiss Bella—but she knew that was a line Ayuah would never cross. Their love wasn’t about desire or lust. It was something quieter, fiercer: two broken spirits, shaped and hardened by endless family pressure, who had found someone they could lean on and stand strong with.


Bella had walked this circle all her life. The Reveras, Zanes, and Petrovs—fractured families in their own ways—had all been molded by the impossible demands of wealth, power, and public image. National influence, sprawling estates, political leverage—they were all weapons and targets at once. Even minor shifts, like a national election, could extract massive concessions from them: Revera oil rights in public lands, Zane control over state apps, the Petrov persistence in industry despite political hurdles. The games of influence extended across the Northeast—and sometimes nationwide.


It was amusing in a way: the Reveras, who had been in America the longest, claimed Latino or Hispanic heritage, but apart from the name, they were the WASPiest of the three families. Robin had her wealth, yes, but her only real outlet was her small circle of friends and her uncle—she’d never been forced to endure this kind of crushing expectation. No only-fans rebellion, no scandalous escapades. Bella, not being a first-tier family deviant, was understandable; a comatose twin sister and her parents’ divorce had almost broken her. She might have cracked completely if not for Ayuah always being there to cover for her.


Ayuah leaned back slightly, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “Wait… WS is really your boyfriend’s younger brother?”


Bella gave a small, resigned nod.


Ayuah laughed, low and amused. “Oh my god, Bella… you wicked little thing. Dating one and bedding the other…”


Bella’s cheeks colored slightly, but she shook her head. “I haven’t actually… been with WS physically. I had to basically blackmail him just to get this much.”


Nadjia, ever the blunt observer, almost spat out her words. “Wait… is WS gay?”


Ayuah snorted and waved her off immediately. “No way. No gay dude could hope to survive the gauntlet he’s been through. Trust me.”


Bella rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide a smirk, while Nadjia scribbled furiously in her notebook, muttering about how ridiculous it was that people kept underestimating WS.


Nadjia’s pen paused mid air. “Wait… what do you mean by ‘gauntlet’? And what’s the story about this specific gauntlet that made WS stand out?”


Ayuah leaned back, smirking. “I’m talking about the ultimate test… 75 women. That’s the gauntlet he went through.”


Nadjia closes her eyes for a moment, letting her mind conjure the image: seventy-five experienced women, each a force in her own right, and a young boy stepping into that storm. She imagines him being crushed, battered, tested to the limit, only to emerge on the other side like a phoenix reborn—stronger, sharper, and unrecognizable from the boy who entered.


Opening her eyes, Nadjia turns her focus back to Bella. The intensity in her gaze has escalated, bordering on manic, as she begins to pester Bella relentlessly. Every question, every demand for detail is sharp and probing, as if trying to force the truth out by sheer willpower alone.


At the same time, in the back of her mind, Nadjia can’t help but wonder: if she’s really uncovered “the one,” the person capable of handling all the twisted, dark scenarios she’s cataloged in her journal… the ones she has never dared show anyone. The thought makes her pulse quicken, but she keeps it hidden, letting only the interrogation show on the surface.


Before Nadjia can fire off another rapid question, Ayuah steps in, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down,” she says firmly. “It’s like you struck gold or something.”


Bella lets out a half-huff, rolling her eyes. “It’s my gold,” she mutters, pride threading through her voice. She’s already had to fend off Sasha’s curiosity and scrutiny; now she falls silent, letting Ayuah’s gaze take over, redirecting attention away from herself.


Ayuah arches an eyebrow, her tone teasing but sharp. “Why would any sane woman blackmail a dude into treating her the way he does?”


Bella shrugs, letting out a small, dry laugh. “I tried the usual routes… none of it worked. That… that was the only way to get him to be real with me.” Her lips curl in a half-smile. “And… I discovered I quite enjoyed it too.”


Nadjia cuts in almost immediately, voice sharp and insistent. “No, Bella, you don’t. You like the person giving you attention—you’re confusing that enjoyment of being noticed with what you allow yourself to be treated as. You should talk to your mother; she’s the best psychologist in town.”


Bella rolls her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “Because she’s my mother, I can’t consult with her. She can’t be objective. I squeeze what I can out of… whatever chance I get.” Her voice hardens slightly. “Until the asshole went missing six days ago, and now… I’ve been squirming for an orgasm.”


Ayuah blinks, a mix of shock and exasperation on her face, while Nadjia’s mouth opens and closes, clearly at a loss for words.


Ayuah scrolls through Bella’s phone, frowning slightly. Every single picture of WS is just body parts—no face, nothing that could identify him. She looks up at Bella, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “You have enough material here!”


Bella exhales, a mix of frustration and longing in her voice. “The messages don’t do it for me anymore. I need him… I need that intense, raspy voice telling me how much he despises me if not for me. The way he describes my body, the degrading comments… that’s what actually does it for me.”


Nadjia leans back, letting out a low sigh. “Yeah… once you get bored with the vanilla stuff, you have to push yourself further and further. In my case, it’s all imagination. In your case? Your addiction?”


Ayuah’s eyes narrow, and she slaps the phone down onto the table. “You’re both degenerates!” she snaps, her voice sharp with exasperation. “Obsessing over this… this mess is insane!”


Bella just rolls her eyes, unimpressed, while Nadjia smirks faintly, almost amused by the outburst.


Ayuah leans in, her voice low but sharp. “Bella, you have a boyfriend. And even if it’s not physical, this… this has serious repercussions. You’re not exactly subtle—every time that ringtone goes off, you run for safety, only to come back glowing, with that certain gait in your walk. What will you do if Vidal finds out?”


Bella swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not like that…”


Ayuah’s eyes narrow, reading the unspoken truth. Bella is caught between two worlds: a soft wall called Vidal, steady and protective, and a thick sword called WS, dangerous and consuming. Somehow, she does love Vidal—because without him, WS would likely ignore her… or worse, use her completely. And in those moments with WS, she’d drown in those blue eyes, surrendering everything and getting nothing back in return except scraps of attention when he had nothing better to do.

Nadjia leans back slightly, frowning at Ayuah. “Stop being so hard on Bella. It’s so damn hard to find the right mix. Some boys… they’re almost perfect, but then they’re too poor, not tall enough, not daring enough. When you find what works for you, you stick with it. Isn’t that what you told us once, when you started dating Jeff? Black, not exactly a genius, but great social skills…”

“Ayuah shook her head, a small, knowing smile on her lips. ‘Jeff… he’s not perfect. Not a genius, not flawless, but he’s reliable. Every social gathering, every tricky situation—he behaves above expectations. You always know where you stand with him.’ She paused, glancing at Bella and Nadjia. ‘My father… William Zane… he loves my mother, sure. But his nature is rash, impulsive, compelled by desire beyond reason. He cheats, lies, manipulates—even when love alone should have held him back.’


She straightened slightly, the discipline in her posture hinting at her training. ‘I got his rash attitude, luckily not the libido. From my mother, I learned martial arts, strategy… an Eastern view of the world without even realizing it. Jeff… he balances me. Love without trust is chaos, but trust with understanding… that’s rare. That’s stability.’”


Bella smirked. “WS’s mother is Japanese. Looks like he got it from her… but kind of in reverse.”


Ayuah raised an eyebrow. “Reverse?”


“Yeah,” Bella said, leaning back. “He presents himself as pure passion, uncontrolled, wild energy.”


Ayuah’s eyes widened. “Wait… Vidal and Nami’s mother is… Japanese?” Her mind raced as the pieces fell into place. “Their grades… it finally makes sense. I never even noticed they were Asian.”


Bella shrugged. “Nojiko let it slip once. Her father was American, her grandmother Korean.”


Ayuah practically spat the words out. “Please… women.” She shook her head, still haunted by old grudges between Korea and Japan.


Bella grinned. “Nojiko’s grandfather married her Korean grandmother.”


Ayuah froze, surprise written across her face. “Oh… wow.”


Nadjia tilted her head, curiosity sharpening her features. “So… WS—is he in high school?”


Bella shook her head.


Ayuah chimed in, brow furrowed. “Dropout?”


“No,” Bella said, calm but precise. “He finished high school by the age of fourteen. Then he took a four-year sabbatical. He’s the smartest of the three.”


Ayuah’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing. “Four-year sabbatical… Huh. What’s up with that?”


Nadjia whipped out her notebook and began scribbling furiously, muttering under her breath as she summarized the conversation. Her pen implied—and Barbied, as if narrating in slow motion—that Bella was a slag, cheating on her boyfriend with his younger brother. Then, in a detached, almost clinical tone, she affirmed that she had probably found the right man to try out all the sickest, darkest stories she kept hidden in her safe.


Bella and Ayuah exchanged glances—and immediately burst into laughter at Nadjia’s awkward admission, treating it like another ridiculous layer of the conversation.


Ayuah shook her head, smirking with sharp humor. “You two are lucky to be blondes with big tits… or else no man would bother with you, given how weird and base you are.”


But beneath the edge of her words, her eyes softened just slightly when they met Bella’s. Despite mocking the parts of her friends driven by base instincts, Ayuah’s trust and affection ran deep. In a high-society world dominated by her family, Sasha’s empire, and Robin’s influence, Bella was her sanctuary—a person she could lean on, confide in, and understand her in ways no one else could.


Even Nadjia, for all her awkwardness, had a place in Ayuah’s heart—but Bella was the constant, the safe haven in the chaos.

ayuah grabs vidal and nami and tells them to sit down in that zane way that admits no questioning
now i keep hearing about your stupid younger brother, sasha smiles and bella acts all awkward whenever he is mentioned and even robin and nadjia seems to be dreaming when talking about it! nadjia has never even met him!
So who the fuck is your younger brother?


Vidal (grinning, leaning back): “You’ve all heard some of this before, but Nami and I? We grew up with the guy. And trust me — half the stuff we’ve seen, we wouldn’t believe if it wasn’t right in front of us.”


Nami (smiling slyly): “Yeah, like the time he went into a shop with an empty candy wrapper… and came out with a bag full of sweets. Didn’t spend a dime. Just smiled and talked until the clerk practically begged him to take them.”


Vidal: “Or the liquor store job. He somehow convinced a grown man to hand over a bag of booze — no ID, no threats, nothing. Just… whatever that is.”


Nami (grinning wider): “And it’s not just charm. One time, a gang of older kids tried to corner him. He kept one hand behind his back and stared at them. Didn’t say a word. Within a minute, they backed off — pale, shaking… some of them literally peed themselves.”


Vidal (laughing): “Yeah. I’ve seen him do it to adults. He doesn’t bluff with words. He bluffs with… presence.”


Nami: “And then there’s the nurse story…”


Vidal (holding up a hand): “Let’s… not share too much about that one.”


Nami (ignoring him): “Let’s just say she still sends him Christmas presents, and no one asks why.”


Bella shifts in her seat — too subtly for most to notice — but Sasha catches it, filing it away.


Vidal (shrugging): “Point is, he’s… not normal. I mean, if he wants something, reality just seems to rearrange itself so he gets it. Even I don’t understand it.”


Nadjia blinks slowly. “You’re telling me a sixteen-year-old… scares grown men?”


Nami: “Scares them, charms them, makes them forget what they were even doing… pick one.”


The table laughs — all except Bella, who hides a small smile behind her glass.

 

[Warscared]

The helmet wasn’t even that special. Some beat-up gear shop off the interstate had it sitting on a rack, dusty as hell, the tag peeling. Sticker price was fifty bucks, tops. WS, green as hell when it came to buying his own gear, shoved three crisp hundreds into the cashier’s hand just to get it quick. The old man behind the counter didn’t even blink, just grinned like he’d seen another dumb kid walk into a lesson.


Sixteen years old, thinking he knew the world, yet still tripping on the simplest of hustles. That stung worse than the suspension. He wasn’t afraid of death, cops, or the Riders breathing down his neck—but being played like a sucker? That ate at him.


Still, the overpriced lid had one thing going for it: the radio. Tinny, local, half-static stations. Somewhere outside a nowhere town, a track cut through the white noise. Chase McDaniel — Made It This Far.


The hook clung to him. Riding into the dying sun, his gloves sticky on the bars, he kept hearing: “I made it this far…” It wasn’t bragging, it wasn’t victory. It was survival. Exactly what he was doing. Surviving his own guilt, the blood on his hands, the mess he’d made of Sasha, Bella, and Stephanie.


He cranked it louder, feeling the hum of his bike sync to the beat. For a mile, maybe two, it was almost like he wasn’t a killer, wasn’t Lucifer’s rumored spawn. Just a kid with too much road ahead, holding on by the knuckles.


WS’s fingers trembled over the phone as he dialed, the hum of his motorcycle fading into the background. When his mom answered, he couldn’t hold back any longer.


“Mom… I love you,” he said, his voice breaking, the words spilling out faster than he could control. “I… I understand now. All the pain, all the trouble you went through raising me… just a retarded kid who could barely function, who would go into hysteria at a lamp or a sound… I’m sorry, Mom. I know it couldn’t have been easy. But I promise… I’ll make it alright.”


He swallowed hard, fighting the tears threatening to fall. “I met a guy… Collins… he said he was a friend of my biological dad… and he refused me.”


His voice softened, almost a whisper. “Thank you for not giving up on me, Mom.”


On the other end, Nojiko’s voice was steady, calm, full of warmth. “You were worth it,” she said.


As WAR*HALL’s Dead Man Walking crackled through his helmet, WS let himself feel—truly feel—the weight lift slightly from his shoulders.

WS steps onto the cracked earth of the graveyard, the wind carrying a faint whistle through the skeletal remains of the town. He finds the weathered headstone: John Williams—Gabriel. Sitting heavily beside it, he drags his worn bag over, tilts the first bottle of gin, and pours into two chipped glasses—one for himself, one for the long-dead Gabriel.


WS drags his bag onto the cracked earth beside the weathered headstone of John Williams—Gabriel. He pops the cap on his gin and takes a long pull, savoring the burn. Then he lifts the Wild Turkey bourbon from his bag and slowly pours it over Gabriel’s headstone, letting the amber liquid soak into the stone.


“I heard this one was your favorite,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the grave. “So I decided to stop by and pay homage. Not much of a conversationalist, are you? Guess we’ll just have to drink in silence, you old fool.”


He takes another sip of his gin, the warmth settling in, and leans back, letting the wind carry his thoughts across the deserted rail tracks.



WS leans back against the cracked headstone, swirling the gin in his hand.


“I heard your story from old Malachi,” he says quietly, voice carrying over the empty rail yard. “Although if you ever met him, he was probably around twenty back then. Ezekiel said I should visit at least once… strange—he only talked to Zeke for two weeks before he got arrested.”


He glances at the horizon, the wind tugging at his jacket. “The new mother chapter… nothing like you old dogs used to have back in your days. All that excess fat… nowadays, we trim the fat.”


He takes another long pull from his bottle, letting the silence of the deserted town answer him.


The old man shuffles closer, his white beard swaying with each step. “Talking to the dead… can’t be good for a young man like you,” he says cautiously.


WS squints at him through the haze of gin, half-drunk but steady enough. “I needed to understand,” he mutters. “And… it was either Gabriel or Michael’s grave. Michael’s got too many people around it.”


The old man nods slowly, voice softening. “Those are old names. Should be spoken with respect.”


WS tilts his head, almost smiling. “I respect,” he says quietly. “It’s like… my feelings. I have them. I just don’t show them.”


He pours a little gin onto the headstone, the liquid glinting in the fading sunlight, letting his quiet homage speak for the rest.


WS lifts the Wild Turkey bottle and pours it solemnly over Gabriel’s gravestone, letting the amber liquid soak into the stone. Then he tilts the gin to his lips and drinks, eyes half-closed, lost in the quiet company of the dead.


“Pick your poison and join me, wise one,” he slurs, nodding toward the ten other bottles in his bag. “’Cause though I might not lack for bravery or brains… wisdom keeps evading me. Leaves me fucked over, and more alone than before.”


The old man squints at WS, then picks up a bottle of Scottish whiskey, turning it in his hands.


“You speak like you’re at their level,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t. These were great men… sacrificed everything to save the lost sheep. Returned from the war with nothing but wounds in their souls and darkness in their hearts.”


WS leans back slightly, voice rough from gin, eyes half-lit with defiance.


“Obadiah… he called me Azrael once,” he says, voice low but sharp. “Ray—the new Gabriel—tried to turn me into Michael when he saw my ‘brilliant’ plan to free the angels from jail… and the next day, he called me Samael. All because of the plan I had to destroy Lucifer, the bastard.”


He pauses, letting the words hang, before taking another long swallow from his gin.


The old man squints, leaning on his cane. “Obadiah Hakeswill?”


WS shrugs, gin sloshing slightly in his bottle. “I don’t know… all the angels I’ve met use prophet names. His real name’s probably Martin… or Geoffrey. I can see Obadiah’s birth name being Geoffrey.”


The old man shakes his head slowly. “Nope. That’s his real name—Obadiah.”


WS smirks faintly, tilting the bottle. “Figures. Guess some men are born to carry the weight of their names.”


WS laughs, voice rough and slurred, tilting the bottle to drain the last drops. “I am WS… could give you my full name, but I don’t do that!”


He peers into the bag, frowning, then curses under his breath. “Should’ve bought more gin… probably could’ve gotten two bottles for the price I paid for this one of vodka…”


Then a grin spreads across his face as the memory hits. “Ah, but I didn’t even pay—swindled the shopkeeper. Hah! Figures. Clever bastard me.”


He chuckles again, shaking his head, the desert wind carrying the sound across the empty graveyard.


WS squints at the old man, slurring slightly but amused. “And what’s your name, wise one?”


“They call me Quickwitt,” the old man replies, calm but with a glint in his eye.


WS chuckles, “Who… are they?”


Quickwitt smirks, “The ones behind your back… pointing guns at you.”


WS laughs, turning around casually—then freezes. Four massive bikers stand a few yards away, guns leveled at him. His grin fades, replaced by that familiar calculating stare. “Well… this just got interesting,” he mutters, tilting his bottle and taking another swig.


WS reaches for the bottle, but realizing he’s out of gin, he snatches up the Wild Turkey instead—Gabriel’s gift—and takes a swig… then immediately spits it out. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, shaking his head. “This isn’t for drinking… it’s for paying respects.” He carefully pours the Wild Turkey over Gabriel’s gravestone, the amber liquid soaking into the cold stone, as the four bikers watch silently in the background.

so quickwitt what's this about? can´t a biker pay his respect to a founder?

Quickwitt narrows his eyes, still gripping his whiskey. “Respect, sure… but you don’t just waltz in here spilling spirits over graves while the old guard watches, kid. This isn’t a playground.”


WS leans back slightly, smirking through the haze of alcohol. “Quickwitt, what do you think this is? I came to pay my respects… Gabriel’s gift, not mine. If anyone’s offended, maybe they should’ve been here back when it mattered.”


The four bikers shift uneasily behind Quickwitt, but he doesn’t lower his gaze. “You got guts… or stupidity. Maybe both. Just remember, kid, legends aren’t made by empty bottles and loud mouths—they’re made by what you do when nobody’s looking.”


WS grins, tipping an imaginary hat. “Noted, wise one. Now… join me or step aside.”


the old man kicks him in the stomach

WS doubles over, a grunt escaping him as the wind is knocked out of his lungs. He staggers back, hand clutching his stomach, eyes narrowing through the haze of pain and alcohol.
Quickwitt smirks, tipping his bottle slightly. “I said step aside, kid. Or respect gets taught the hard way.”
WS straightens, leaning on the bag of bottles for balance. A crooked grin forms despite the ache. “Oh, we’re teaching lessons now, are we? Fine… but remember, wise one… I don’t forget.”
The four bikers behind Quickwitt shift, tense, unsure if they should intervene or let this play out. WS wipes a trickle of blood from his lip, his blue eyes sharp and dangerous in the dusk.


WS grunts, muscles straining against the weight of four burly bikers pinning him to the dusty ground. He glances up at Quickwitt, voice low but filled with dark amusement:


“Old man… you kick harder than your appearance would dictate.”


The bikers tighten their grip, but WS’s eyes flicker with a calculating light, scanning for any weakness. Even under their weight, he shifts slightly, testing their balance, his grin unbroken.


The air hangs thick with tension—respect, defiance, and danger all mingling in the fading sunlight.


“Listen up, you insolent kid,” Quickwitt snarls. “That plan you just mentioned? It came from the Mother House itself. You expect me to believe you are part of it?”


“Not anymore!” WS snaps.


“Are you mad?”


“No… just nomad,” WS replies, chuckling at his own wit—before one of the four bikers slams his face into Gabriel’s gravestone. His cheek hits cold, hard stone with a sickening crunch. Pain flares, but his laughter bubbles up raw and defiant. Dust and grit scrape into his eyes, but even under the weight, his deep blue eyes glint with unbroken defiance, a storm barely contained.


The old man narrows his eyes, shifting his weight. “Where’d you get that bike of yours?”


WS smirks, wiping a smear of dust from his cheek. “Bought it from the club.”


“Do you know to whom it used to belong?” the man asks, voice low, cautious.


WS chuckles, shaking his head. “It was my brother, Ezekiel… some called him Zeke, but only those he trusted. If you tried to infiltrate his inner circle by using Zeke—and he disapproved—he’d punch you… or, in my case, I got one hell of an Indian burn.”


The old man squints, as if trying to gauge whether WS is lying or bragging. WS just shrugs, letting the story hang in the air like smoke from a spent cigarette.


The old man narrows his eyes. “Do you truly know Zeke?”


WS smirks faintly. “I met him… for two weeks before he went inside.”


The old man’s face softens slightly. “He’s out now. Ezekiel has been released.”


WS shakes his head, his tone skeptical. “Unlikely. According to my calculations, the Mother Chapter would’ve had to ask the Petrovs for a three-month advancement and remove that from the members’ share… I doubt they could persuade Obadiah to give up three months of his cut just to release Ezekiel.”


The old man studies WS. “You seem to know Obadiah well… but not Zeke?”


WS shrugs, a half-smile forming despite the bruises. “I should. He taught me how to ride, and I helped the bastard make millions. Not that he gave me any cut—he called it ‘training fees.’”


The old man squints at WS, barely noticing the hint of a beard. “How old are you?”


“Sixteen,” WS replies.


The other four frisk him, yanking the gun he had hidden inside his hood.


“Hey! That thing has sentimental value—it was a gift from Malachi!” WS protests.


The old man laughs. “You keep dropping names like that—it could make up for your shortfalls.”


WS locks eyes with him, unwavering. “Tell that to the House on the Hill and all the rider chapters I wrecked before I reached that house and lifted the siege in Minnesota. Call Murray—he can vouch for me. Besides… what shortfalls? Five to one, even if I fight and lose, that’s no shame.”


The old man narrows his eyes. “You should stop lying to me. You keep dropping names from the Mother Chapter, but when I ask you to verify… you tell me to call Minnesota, not the Mother Chapter. How convenient.”


WS smirks, a little drunk, shrugging. “Call who you want. Doesn’t make the truth any less true. Besides, I like giving the old guard a headache.”


The old man shakes his head. “You behave like Lucifer… that rancid cur. But I’ve lived long enough not to be fooled by him… again.”


WS glares, almost laughing through the sting of alcohol and defiance. “Because you were a fool, I must now suffer unfair treatment at the hands of men who are supposed to be my brothers?”


A sharp punch cracks into his ribs. The four bikers holding him down yank off his hoodie, revealing the nomad cut beneath.


The old man steps closer, eyes cold. “But a prospect for your position… I see what this is. You failed, but you try to represent anyway. Not good enough to be patched in, yet still trying to steal the glory.”


WS’s head throbs, and he feels the weight of four elite bikers pressing him down. His eyes flick from one grim face to the next, realizing just how quickly this could go south. These weren’t rookies—these guys were sharp, trained, and not easily tricked or beaten.


“Ray… he never allowed me to be patched in,” WS mutters, his voice rough but steady. “Even after I walked the gauntlet against seventy-five of his girls. Yeah, I failed—but I did my best.”


The old man narrows his eyes, studying him like a predator evaluating prey. “You call that your best?” he growls. “Most would’ve crumbled under half the pressure you faced. Yet you’re still here… and still trying to talk your way out?”


WS smirks through the pain, knowing talking might be his only edge. “Yeah. Talking’s cheaper than dying, and I like to think I’ve got a bit of stubborn luck left.”


The old man lets out a low chuckle, almost grudgingly. “Stubborn… or foolish. Either way, you’ve got guts, kid. But guts alone won’t keep you alive with these four on your back.”


The old man leans closer, voice low and sharp. “You must explain that… inexplicable cut of yours!”


WS shrugs, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Jeremiah told me those that mattered would know… guess he was pulling a practical joke. Stupid Jeremiah.” He laughs softly, then shrugs again. “Oh well. If I must, then at least let me go with honor. In a knife fight.”


He glances at the four men pressing him down, noting their tattoos, their posture, their sheer presence. “I’ve seen these guys’ tattoos… two former SEALs, an Air Droper, a Marine… and me? Sixteen years old… against that? It’s not like I can win, right?”


He sends the old man a grin—half defiance, half acknowledgment of the impossible odds stacked against him.


The old man narrows his eyes, studying WS. “Zeke… he was my best friend back when we used to ride with the old Zane, back in Texas. If you truly know him, then Zeke must have told you about those times.”


WS tilts his head, letting a small, knowing grin play across his face. “Yeah… I met him for a couple weeks before he went inside. Heard a lot about the old days from him—guess some stories never die, huh?”


WS grits his teeth, scanning the faces around him. “I heard about Jeb, Carlton, Haines… all those guys you rode with back in Texas,” he rattles off, hoping to strike a chord.


The old man shakes his head slowly. “None of those names… are me.”


WS blinks, momentarily thrown. “Wait… Quickwitt… that was just a name you picked on the spot when you decided to set me up?”


The man smirks grimly, nodding.


WS exhales, dropping his hands slightly. “So after I run out of names… guess you really considered him your best friend, but he didn’t give a shit about you enough to name you in his stories.”


The old man’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t answer immediately, letting the weight of WS’s words hang in the tense air.


The old man signals to the four bikers holding WS down. “Release the kid,” he orders. “He wasn’t named, but the rest of the group he named… those are the right ones. He had to know Zeke.”


WS smirks despite the tension. “Ezekiel… learned not to call him Zeke,” he corrects, his tone sharp. Then he pauses, eyes narrowing. “Bernard Cornwell.”


The old man tilts his head, suspicion flickering across his face. “Why did you name me… and not when you were in danger?”


WS chuckles darkly, his grin edged with bitterness. “Had to get some sort of revenge on you bastard.”


The four bikers holding WS start laughing as two more arrive, announcing, “The bike isn’t under Ezekiel’s name—it’s under the Mother Chapter’s name.”


WS tilts his head, pretending to ponder. “Ah… must’ve forgotten to update the property title,” he says casually. Then, with a slow, deliberate grin, he turns his gaze to the other bikers, locking eyes one by one, drawing their attention completely.


Finally, he faces Bernard, the wickedest, most sadistic smile he’s ever given in his life spreading across his face.


Bernard narrows his eyes. “What’s going on?”


WS leans just slightly forward, his voice low but carrying enough for everyone to hear. “I remember a story Zeke told me once… about his best friend.”


For a brief moment, Bernard’s expression softens—Zeke did consider him his best friend. Then he notices WS’s grin, the way he’s savouring this moment, and a chill runs down his spine.


WS whispers, loud enough for all to hear: “Poopypants.”


Bernard freezes, the infamous Keeper of the Ruins, his legendary presence faltering. His face goes pale, then crimson, then a mix of disbelief and fury. He shouts, voice booming over the group: “POOPYPANTS?! After everything—TWENTY straight hours of riding, barely stopping for coffee—and you… YOU… have the audacity to call me Poopypants in front of all these men?!”


For a heartbeat, the tension is suffocating. And then… it breaks.


The bikers, hardened veterans who had seen hell and back, erupt in laughter. Even the most stoic among them can’t hold it in. Bernard’s shock and anger only make it funnier. WS leans back, eyes glinting with mischief, savoring the chaos.


“You… little bastard,” Bernard growls, trying to reclaim some dignity, but the laughter drowns him out. “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with?!”


“You should’ve seen your face, Bernard,” one biker manages between gasps of laughter. “A legend of the past… Keeper of the Ruins… and he just got Poopypants’d by a sixteen-year-old!”


Bernard’s jaw tightens, but the laughter is contagious. Even he can’t help a reluctant chuckle escape, knowing WS has struck a nerve and claimed a victory without a single fight.

WS rode back with the seven other angels, taking the last position. One was a legend of old, the others all military elites. It stung—he hated being second, but eighth was still too much. Still, he was among his brothers.


WS rolls into the chapter, the roar of his bike fading as he kills the engine. Every head turns—some in curiosity, some in skepticism. He walks straight up to the table, no hesitation, no apology.


“I want a table meeting,” he says, calm, almost casual. The room falls silent. A few of the older Angels exchange glances, eyebrows raised. A kid asking for a table meeting?


QuickWitt snorts, leaning back in his chair. “What for? A nomad doesn’t have that authority.”


WS’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I have valuable information. And I need a favor… but it has to be in a safe place.”


The room goes quiet, the words hanging heavy. Every pair of eyes measures him, calculating. The notion of a kid—barely sixteen—demanding a table meeting is audacious. But there’s something in his tone that makes even the skeptics pause.


The Angels not present at the graveyard glance at him with faint smirks, amused by the audacity of this kid demanding a table meeting. But the ones who had been there, who heard his boasts about how he had wreaked havoc on the Riders, stare intensely, their eyes fixed on WS.


They wait, every muscle tensed, watching for what their leader will do next. The room is charged, a mixture of skepticism, curiosity, and a grudging respect for the sheer nerve of him.


WS locks eyes with Bernard Cornwell, unwavering, and for a long moment it’s just the two of them. Then, almost imperceptibly, Bernard concedes. The tension snaps.


The Angels who hadn’t been at the graveyard gape, dumbfounded. Their jaws drop, murmurs ripple through them. “WTF just happened?” echoes silently in every head.


Those who were there know exactly what just passed—the kid earned a victory not through strength, but through sheer nerve, timing, and reputation. And Bernard’s quiet concession speaks louder than any roar ever could.


Bernard shouts, “Table meeting! Now!” The room stirs. Someone hesitates, “Three patched members aren’t here yet… should we wait?”


WS cuts through the hesitation, his voice cold and sharp, “No. This must be secured and handled as fast as possible. It’s unlikely the Riders have caught my scent, but if they did… all chapters within range will be hunting for me. We can’t afford to wait.”


The Angels exchange glances, the tension thick. Even the veterans feel the weight of what WS is saying—this isn’t just protocol. This is survival. The clock has started ticking, and every second counts.


The table meeting begins. Bernard leans forward, eyes narrowing, “What is so urgent that votes are being left out? All votes not present count against your proposal—you know that, right?”


WS meets his gaze, calm but unflinching. “I know.”


The door clicks shut behind them, locking the room in tense silence. Without another word, WS throws the Riders’ Bible onto the center of the table. It lands with a thud, the leather-bound weight commanding attention.


Bernard blinks, a frown creasing his brow. “What is this?”


WS doesn’t answer directly. His eyes sweep the room, resting briefly on each Angel, letting the gravity sink in. “We need to create a riding party. This has to get to Ray and the safety of the Mother Chapter as soon as possible. Once inside the ring… the Riders won’t be able to recover her.”


The table goes silent. The weight of the Riders’ Bible on the table is heavier than any sword, heavier than any oath—they all know the implications. This isn’t a request. It’s a mission that could change everything.


The Sergeant-at-Arms leans over the table, voice rough but measured. “Are you the one the Mother Chapter asked about? If they find him, he needs to return as soon as possible. Been what… four months since that national recall was launched!”


WS lets out a slow, exasperated breath, running a hand through his hair. “Exactly why I avoided this chapter… avoided all of you. But this damn book… changed everything.”


The room grows quieter, the tension thickening. Even the Angels who hadn’t been at the graveyard feel the weight of his words. Something about this kid—the way he holds the Riders’ Bible—has turned a simple meeting into a crossroads.


“So, you’re saying this…” the Sergeant-at-Arms gestures at the Bible, “…is why we’re moving now?”


WS gives a small, knowing nod. “Not moving. Acting. And fast. Because if the Riders catch even a whisper, it won’t just be me they’re after—it’ll be all of us, all chapters within range. This… this has to happen yesterday.”


Bernard flips the Riders’ Bible open, scanning the pages with a slow, deliberate intensity. He stops mid-line, lets the book fall shut with a thud, and his eyes lock on the embossed Riders’ symbol stamped on the cover.


“Is this… what I think it is?” he asks, voice low but edged with disbelief.


WS doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulls a worn, leather-bound journal from his jacket and hurls it onto the table, letting it land with a heavy thump atop the Bible.


“Yes,” he says finally, his tone steady. “And this…” he nods to the journal, “is one of the betrayer’s own lieutenants keeping a record of the events. Collins’ personal account, unfiltered, unpolished… the truth of what they did.”


The table goes silent. Even hardened Angels pause, staring at the stack in the center, realizing the magnitude of what’s been laid before them. This isn’t just information—it’s a hammer poised to shatter their enemies’ version of history.


Bernard traces a finger along the spine of the Riders’ Bible, then looks up at WS, respect and something else—something sharper—flashing in his eyes. “You got your hands on both of these…?”


One of the oldest Angels leans forward, voice rough with years of wear, “Wait… the Collins you’re talking about… the bastard that got Joshy electrocuted?”


WS’s expression hardens, eyes narrowing. “Yeah… he was one of the bastards. Except nobody ever knew that side of his life. Honourable, my ass.”


The table tightens, a tense pause hanging in the air. Bernard shifts slightly, sensing the gravity. One of the younger patched members finally blurts, “Did you… kill him?”


WS doesn’t flinch. “I avenged my five fallen brothers.”


At that, two of the oldest members rise almost instinctively, fists pounding lightly on the table, eyes burning with loyalty and anger. “Then we vote for whatever you propose,” one of them says. “Joshy was our boy… smart as hell, framed and dirtied like that. There was no way into that asshole—not without paying with our lives.”


The weight of that promise settles on the table. Even though Collins’ death had been improbable, WS had already swung the balance in their favor—justice, in their eyes, had been served. The room hums with a mixture of rage, respect, and the quiet thrill of knowing a long-sought revenge had finally landed.


The treasurer frowns, leaning forward. “Okay… so we’ve got Collins’ personal account. But what is that book, Bern?”


Bernard lifts the thick, worn tome, letting the Riders’ symbol glint in the light. “The Riders Bible,” he says, voice low, rough with disbelief.


A wave of tension sweeps through the room. Most of the Angels’ members immediately grasp the weight of it: this isn’t their own history, their own code—it’s the enemy’s. Only two of the newer patched members look confused, too inexperienced to feel the danger.


WS keeps his eyes on the table, calm but sharp. The older Angels shift in their seats, realizing that if the Riders ever knew the Angels had this, every chapter within range would hunt them down. Every secret, every strategy of the Riders is laid bare inside those pages.


“Do you understand what this is?” Bernard growls, slamming the cover lightly on the table. “This isn’t just information…if they know we have it.... it’s a threat to every Angel here. And it’s in our hands.”


WS nods once, measured. The room tightens with silent agreement: whatever comes next, they need to move fast—or risk every rider chapter falling on them.


WS leans back slightly, eyes scanning the older Angels. “They probably have a few more copies,” he says. “We’re not depriving them of information… but this gives us power. Power to fight them on our terms.”


He taps the Collins journal. “And this—this is full of secrets. Rich ones. Might be outdated, sure—it’s been decades—but from what I’ve read, it could still be useful.”


Bernard narrows his eyes. “And… you read the Riders Bible?”


WS shakes his head. “No. Felt wrong. Not before I had my chance with the Angels Bible first.”


The room goes quiet for a moment. Even the younger members sense it: the weight of history, the honor, and the dangerous balance of power resting in these hands.


Bernard leans forward, voice sharp. “So… what you were asking before—this strong, well-armed riding party?”


WS meets his gaze steadily. “Yes. We move this inside the ring in the northeast. Fast. Once it’s in, the Riders won’t be able to touch it—and neither will anyone else who shouldn’t.”


A ripple of understanding—and unease—passes through the table. Every Angel present knows what this means: speed, firepower, and precision. Failure isn’t just dangerous—it could cost them their chapter’s honor.


Bernard narrows his eyes. “Do you have a plan?”


WS shrugs, calm but deliberate. “Not much of one. We run as fast as possible to the Cumberland Gap… then ride north like the wind. Keeps us clear of most Riders’ turf, buys us time.”


The older Angels exchange wary glances. Speed and stealth—simple, brutal, and dangerous. Every one of them knows the roads will be unforgiving, but hesitation isn’t an option.


Bernard scans the table. “Any volunteers?”


WS is the first to stand. Calm, sure. Two others follow—brothers who had already pledged themselves earlier.


Bernard’s jaw tightens. “I’ll stay back. Keep things looking normal, maintain appearances.” He pauses, eyes sweeping the room. “But I’ll reach out to the other Angels chapters. Ask them to run cover. I’ve got enough influence to pull that off… at least this much.”


The three who are riding exchange a quick, knowing glance. The stakes are clear: speed, secrecy, and survival. No room for hesitation.


Eight more members rise, offering themselves. Two-thirds of the chapter is now ready to ride. Bernard lets out a low whistle, running a hand down his face. “Damn… alright. Looks like the majority of us are going to play this game.”


WS nods, eyes scanning each brother who volunteered. “Good. We move fast, we move smart, and we don’t stop until this is inside the ring. Everyone else keeps the chapter quiet and normal.”


The tension tightens in the room, the weight of the Riders Bible heavy in every silent glance. These aren’t just men on a ride—they’re carrying a threat that could ignite every Angels chapter within range if it slips.


WS slides the Riders Bible across the table to one of the Seals—the same man who had held him down earlier that day. Their eyes meet for a brief second, a silent acknowledgment: reliable, steady, battle-tested.


To the Parachuter, he tosses Collins’ journal. The man catches it without hesitation, flipping through a few pages with a quick, practiced glance. He nods once. Both men understand the weight of what they carry.


“Move fast,” WS says, voice low but sharp. “No stops. Every second counts.”


The two mount their bikes, engines growling like predators ready to hunt. Behind them, the other riders fall in line, a steel-and-leather wave stretching into the night. The wind whips around them, carrying them north—toward the Cumberland Gap and the safety of the ring.


The chapter watches, some tense, some in silent awe. Two-thirds of their brothers vanish in a blur, carrying a secret that could ignite hell if it fell into the wrong hands.


WS turns on the radio and takes the lead, eyes scanning the road ahead. The two carriers ride in the middle of the formation, flanked by the rest of the chapter.


“If we get hit,” WS mutters, “the back riders are sharp enough to handle most attacks. I’ll spot anything up front.”


Engines roar, tires biting into the asphalt. The formation flows like a single organism—speed, skill, and awareness synchronized. Every shadow could hide a threat, every curve a potential ambush, but WS’s calm, focused presence keeps the rhythm steady. The northbound ride becomes more than a delivery: it’s a test of trust, precision, and survival.


WS narrows his eyes, spotting the shapes on the horizon after six hours of relentless riding. The familiar black markings make his blood tense—Angels. But not just any Angels. His memory clicks: the denim jackets, the Triumphs roaring beneath them… Kentucky, Hispanic chapter. Bernard had kept his word; these brothers were running cover exactly as promised.


He subtly adjusts his lead position, eyes scanning for any sign of hostility or misstep. These Angels weren’t here to stop them—they were here to shepherd them safely through Riders’ territory, an unspoken alliance in motion. The road ahead was long, but with allies in the right places, WS knew they had a fighting chance to make it to the Cumberland Gap intact.


A small cluster of five Frankfort Crazy Ducks rounds a bend, their bikes bouncing over the asphalt. Normally, they’re allies—friends of the Angels, familiar with the routes, the unwritten rules. But when they catch sight of the massive line cutting through the dusk, engines growling like a thunderstorm, they don’t hesitate.


Without a word, they veer off the road, hugging the trees, disappearing into the shadows. WS lets out a low whistle, eyes sweeping the perimeter. Even allies have limits—and a group this size, moving this fast, is enough to make anyone scatter. The ride continues, tension coiling like a spring, every second still carrying the weight of the Riders’ Bible and Collins’ journal.

WS eases the bikes to a slow stop at the roadside diner. “Coffee and stretch,” he calls, swinging off his bike and cracking his shoulders.

A former Marine leans against his bike, grinning. “I’m taking bets—who’s gonna be the new Poopypants this ride?” The Graveyard crew erupts in laughter, glancing at each other, while the rest of the chapter frowns, confused. WS lets it slide, knowing exactly what they mean:

He notices a few members quietly using pills to stay awake. Long rides are brutal, and many men rely on whatever keeps them sharp. WS doesn’t interfere—every man makes his own choices—but he doesn’t like it. Habits like that, unchecked, fester quietly, and they can rot a chapter from the inside.

After a few moments, he nods toward the group. “Coffee’s hot, legs stretched. Five minutes, then we ride. Stay tight.” Engines hum, and even during a break, the weight of the Riders’ Bible and Collins’ journal presses on their shoulders.


One of the guys pipes up, grinning, “My uncle’s got a farm in Tennessee—just three hours from here, down a dirt road where no wandering eyes will find us.” WS catches the hint immediately: they’re making a detour to get some sleep.


The group waves goodbye to the Kentucky Hispanics, exchanging hugs and shouts of “Brothers!” and “Hermanos!” as they try to out-yell each other across the rumble of engines.


When WS starts speaking to one of the Hispanics, the man gives him a puzzled look. WS frowns. Fuck… probably the only American Hispanic here who doesn’t speak Spanish.


One of the others, more fluent, chuckles and explains, “We’ve been in the States so many generations, most of us don’t even speak Spanish anymore.”


WS nods, taking it in, the absurdity not lost on him even amidst the tension of the ride.


As WS fumbles with the radio on his helmet, one of the younger brothers calls out, grinning, “Hey, I’ve got a newer model. Way better. You can even switch it to use as a walkie-talkie and talk to the rest of the group.”


A few of the others laugh. “Get with the times, old man,” the 16-year-old jabbering at him says, earning a chorus of teasing chuckles. WS puts on his best tough-guy glare, but it’s all show—inside, he’s just a kid.


“Alright, how much do I owe you for the radio?” he asks, trying to sound serious.


The brother shrugs. “Nothing… it’s just thirty-five bucks anyway.”


WS grins, pulls out a bottle of expensive vodka, and passes it over. “Consider it your beer.”


He shakes his head quietly. Thirty-five dollars for the newest model… oh well. No mistakes, only lessons—even if some are a little pricey.


They reach the farm, and the younger kid—whose place this is—throws open the barn doors. Blankets are pulled out, and everyone starts settling in for the night. The air smells of hay and dust, and for a moment, it feels like they can finally breathe.


Then the uncle shows up, shotgun in hand, squinting in the dim light. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? This ain’t no motel!”


WS, exhausted beyond words, fumbles into one of his cash stashes. He hands a wad of bills to the old man. “Consider it boarding. And there better be breakfast tomorrow… now let us rest.”


The uncle weighs the money in his hand, glances at his nephew, then nods slowly. “Finally started hanging around decent people instead of those vagabond military friends of yours, huh?”


WS just nods, too tired to respond, and lets the barn’s warmth and quiet settle around them. For the first time in hours, the ride’s tension eases—just a little.


A few members start laughing quietly at inside jokes from earlier in the ride, and someone murmurs about how the horses outside are jealous of the bikes. Blankets are pulled tighter, shoulders lean against shoulders, and even the youngest kid curls up next to one of the veterans, feeling safer than he has in days. For the first time in hours, the ride’s tension eases—just a little—and the barn holds them like a fragile bubble of calm before the storm that still lies ahead.


WS climbs onto his bike, the engine growling to life beneath him. He flips the radio on, and a crackling response comes through almost immediately. “Let’s ride!”


A grin spreads across his face—pure, unrestrained glee. “Let’s ride!” he echoes back, the sound mingling with the roar of the engines.


Four miles down the road, they hit the gas station to fuel up. Tires hiss, pumps clatter, and the smell of gasoline mixes with the warm breeze. By the time they pull back onto the highway, the group is ready, engines synchronized, spirits high.


WS flicks the radio to the next track, and Luke Combs’ When It Rains It Pours blasts through the speakers. The lyrics hit the road as the wind whips past them, laughter and shouts carrying over the engine roar.


By the end of the day, they will have crossed the Cumberland, the sun low on the horizon, painting the world in streaks of gold and crimson. Every mile forward, every turn of the wheel, is a step toward safety—and power.


By mid-afternoon, the open road narrows, and ahead, at least three full chapters of Crazy Ducks have formed a wide half-circle, stopping them dead in their tracks. Engines rumble nervously as the group comes to a halt.


WS lifts a hand, voice calm but firm. “Spread out. Get ready.”


His gaze shifts to the two carrier pigeons in the middle of the group. “If things turn south, your priority is reaching the Hispanic chapter. Take shelter and make sure that book and journal stay safe. Understood?”


They nod sharply, eyes serious. WS exhales, then swings his bike forward, heading straight toward the three Crazy Ducks’ chapter presidents—the men the Angels would normally call chiefs. The engines behind him purr in tense anticipation, the rest of the group forming a protective semi-circle around the two carriers, ready for anything.


WS slows as he approaches, studying the faces of the three leaders, measuring their temper, their intent. Every second counts now, and the road feels suddenly smaller, the stakes higher.


WS pulls his gun from the holster, the cold steel catching the sunlight. He fires a single shot, hitting the Crazy Duck president who had spoken on the leg. The report echoes across the clearing.


Modulating his voice so every one of the Ducks hears, he states with calm menace, “Perhaps we Angels have been too lenient with so-called friends… maybe it’s time to open Duck season in Kentucky. Some target practice is always good. Now. Remove yourselves before I start clipping wings and showing who’s boss.”


One of the other presidents raises his hands, trying to reason, “We’re just here to discuss some profit possibilities—”


WS doesn’t flinch. He levels the gun at the man’s hand and fires. Wood and bone splinter under the shot. “I do not negotiate. I take care of business. All I can do is carry the news of your passing to Ray and your next of kin. I will not repeat myself. Move… or die. Your choice.”


When another man tries to intervene, WS fires into his leg, sending him sprawling. He raises his eyes to the sky and mutters, “Why, God… have you chosen this day to test me with dumb Ducks like this?”


The remaining Crazy Ducks hesitate, a ripple of fear washing over them. They sense the unhinged precision, the sheer authority WS commands, and even the bravest start weighing their options. To win this day would ignite a war with the Angels—and whoever this nomad is, he has drawn at least two chapters into his orbit. Secrets once hidden now threaten to erupt. The air is thick with the unspoken realization: they are facing a warlord, and it is far too dangerous to test him.


Meanwhile, the rest of the Angels fan out, taking positions around the clearing. Automatic weapons slide from leather holsters and backpacks, the gleam of metal reflecting the sun. Every Angel is battle-ready, muscles coiled like panthers.


The Crazy Ducks, for all their bravado, had only brought handguns and revolvers. They might outnumber the Angels two to one, but in firepower, in training, in sheer lethal experience—they were already outmatched.


WS’s eyes sweep the line. The Bern boys, all veterans, stand calm, precise. The Gravekeepers—those who protect Gabriel’s resting place—blend into the edges, silent but lethal, ready to turn anyone who dares step closer into a warning.


Even from a distance, the Ducks can feel the shift. The Angels aren’t just armed—they’re ready to kill. And every inch of hesitation, every twitch of fear, could mean the difference between survival and becoming a warning to the next fools who think they can challenge them.


The wind carries the faint scent of gasoline and leather, the world narrowing down to the unspoken rule: one wrong move, one twitch… and blood will mark the field.


And that’s when the rumble hits—a low, rolling roar that vibrates through the valley. From the other side of the Cumberland Gap, three dozen Angels appear, engines growling in unison. Black, Hispanic, and white—different faces, different chapters—but all riding together under the order of a nomad.


The Crazy Ducks freeze, eyes widening. The sheer scale, the coordination, the unity—it’s more than they bargained for.


“Fuck this shit!” someone screams, and like a pack of startled animals, the Ducks turn their bikes and flee, tires kicking up dirt and gravel, leaving nothing but echoes behind.


WS watches them go, gun lowered but still in hand, a grim smile tugging at his lips. Sometimes, the best violence isn’t in shooting—it’s in showing who’s in charge before a single shot is fired.

but this time he needed to show he meant business, most angels are killers, most bikers are not...


WS narrows his eyes, keeping his gun raised, scanning the new arrivals as the engines grow louder.


One of his brothers speaks up, voice tight with excitement: “Bernard… he pulled some favors. Two or three patched members from most chapters in North Carolina, Virginia, even West Virginia… they rode all the way to the other side of the Cumberland Gap. Took them longer than expected, so they decided to come check what the hell’s happening here.”


WS lets the information sink in, his mind working fast. He lowers his gun just slightly, nodding once to himself. “Alright… seems we’ve got backup. Good. But no mistakes. Stay sharp.”


WS slows the group as they pass the Cumberland Gap, the wind whipping off the ridges. He gestures for a stop and turns to one of the Seals, handing him the captain’s role. “Take this letter to Obadiah. I’m moving on my own for a while—getting back to being a nomad.”


Half of the new arrivals insist on riding with them. Now, at least twenty-five Angels ride together—two chapters strong. WS nods, satisfied that they can make it safely. Before moving on, he makes a point to thank every single rider who helped push through the Cumberland Gap.


One of the younger riders—still panting from the ride—grins and mutters, “Guess the legends were right… the gauntlet story about the guy who took on seventy-five girls?” WS just smiles, letting the praise linger, but keeps his identity to himself.


An older brother approaches, voice trembling slightly. “Bernard said you were the one who got our brothers out of jail… I didn’t think it could be you—so young. But… if it is…” He pauses, then hugs WS tightly. “Thanks… I got to see my daughter again. She’s fifteen now… last time I saw her, she was three.”


WS nods, letting the weight of that moment settle in. Quietly, he keeps his face calm, letting the relief and gratitude wash over the brother, all while silently carrying on toward the next stretch of road.


The Parachuter glances at him, curiosity sharp. “Why didn’t you just take what you had straight to the Mother Chapter when you got it?”
WS exhales, the rumble of the engines filling the pause. “I fucked up,” he admits. “Had some… issues to sort first. By the time I realized what needed doing, it was too dangerous to go at it alone. Mainly because it would’ve taken me near Minnesota to get to the Northeast.”
Some of the Angels riding with him, who aren’t fully in the loop, exchange puzzled looks. “Minnesota? What’s that about?”
WS smirks faintly, shaking his head. “A story for another ride.” He falls into formation with three Black brothers from North Carolina, heading south. For the first time in a long while, he thinks about simple pleasures—how those famous Southern dishes must taste. Maybe it’s time to treat yourself… nothing like a present you actually give yourself.
The road stretches ahead, full of unknowns, but for a moment, he allows himself a small sense of reward amidst the chaos.


Two days later, Ray calls a club meeting—out of the blue, no warning, no messages. The 25 Angels who had ridden together through the Cumberland Gap, now resting and draining their reserve of beers, slowly make their way to the gathering spot.


WS is nowhere to be seen; he’s already ridden south with three brothers from North Carolina, chasing a taste of that famous Southern dish he’s always wondered about. For him, it’s a rare indulgence—a small present to himself after everything that’s happened.


Back at the meeting, the room buzzes with low chatter, laughter, and the occasional groan from stiff bodies and hangovers. Angels from all over—North Carolina, Virginia, and beyond—exchange nods, sizing each other up, waiting for Ray to start. Nobody knows exactly what the meeting is for, but everyone knows it will be serious. The air is thick with leather, engine oil, and the faint bitterness of beer.


Ray slides the letter across to Obadiah and asks if he wants to share it. Obadiah opens it, reads, and starts laughing, a low, incredulous chuckle. The bastard had invested $200,000, and now it’s $285,000, sitting in the bank—under his name, in the bank just down the street.


Ezekiel leans in, eyes sharp. “Besides you and Amos, there’s another brother who could really use a helping hand paying the lawyers to get him out. That extra $285,000 seems... interesting.”


Obadiah shakes his head. “No. I already gave up too much to get Zeke out. If he wants, he can use his cut to do what he can. The profit—the $85,000—is it.”


Malachi pipes up: “Sold.”


Obadiah feels the sting of the trick again. If he’d known how much the kid’s plan would have cost him, he never would’ve handed over that damn flash drive. No good deed goes unpunished.



Ray blinks, staring at the two items slammed onto the table. The Riders Bible thuds in front of him, Collins’ journal beside it. His eyes widen. “How… how did you get this?”
The seal shrugs, a mix of pride and disbelief in his voice. “That crazy kid… the one who wanted that letter delivered to Obadiah? Showed up at Gabriel’s grave—drunk out of his mind—talking to the dead. Bernard decided to check what the hell was going on, and… well, this is the full story.”
He pauses, taking a breath, then begins recounting the entire chain of events— the Cumberland Gap, the encounters with the Crazy Ducks, the Hispanic chapter’s support, and the ride south all unfolded. Every detail, every brush with danger, every clever move WS made is retold, leaving Ray and the room full of brothers wide-eyed, some stunned, some in awe.
By the end, the room is silent for a moment, the weight of what just happened sinking in. One of the brothers finally mutters, “That kid… that kid’s something else.”


Jeremiah, Malachi, and Obadiah are leaning back in their chairs, chuckling darkly. Their laughter isn’t just amusement—it’s the knowing kind that comes from having seen what someone is truly capable of. Murray, the Minnesota chief, had already reported back to Ray. He’d confirmed Sasha’s findings: someone—this kid—had taken out the House on the Hill chapter.


One of the strongest rider chapters in the region, the kind that normally would require three to five full chapters of Angels to take down, and probably not without casualties. And yet, the kid had done it. Just him. Frozen them all to death.


Obadiah shakes his head, smiling. “I don’t think anyone’s ever going to guess he did it like that… hell, I didn’t even think it was possible.”


Malachi leans forward, his grin wide. “Ray’s about to find out exactly what kind of monster we’ve got running around. That kid… he’s on a whole other level.”


Jeremiah just laughs again, low and dark, the sound echoing in the room. “And we thought Bernard was crazy.”


They all know that this story isn’t just impressive—it’s terrifying. And it makes the kid’s future moves all the more unpredictable.


The seal leans back, shrugging, a half-smile on his face. “Not crazy, Ray. He’s a nomad. Doesn’t answer to orders the way we do, doesn’t tie himself down to meetings or schedules. He moves when he wants, goes where he wants. That’s what makes him dangerous—and brilliant. You can tell him to come back all you like, but if his path leads somewhere else… well, he follows that.”


Obadiah nods slowly, tapping the table. “Nomad or not, that boy thinks in ways none of us could predict. Rules don’t mean anything to him. He does what he has to, and he does it alone if he needs to. That’s why he pulled off Minnesota…


“You want to know what the Mother Chapter has been sitting on?” he finally said. “Not this book. We haven’t read it yet. What we’ve been sitting on… is a boy.”


Some of the visiting angels stirred, whispering. Ray’s eyes cut through them.


“Yes. That kid who led you through Cumberland. That’s the one. And if word spreads, if the Riders hear his name, they’ll do whatever it takes to put him under Samael’s wing. And if Samael ever got within earshot of him…” He shook his head slowly. “Lucifer could turn almost anyone. You’ve all read their Bible — in it, they say Gabriel’s woman chose the better man. But our Bible says Lucifer stripped her of her will. She never had a choice. He seduced her, tricked her, and raped her with that golden tongue of his. That’s who Samael is. That’s who he’s always been.”


He looked hard at the visitors. “So you see why we keep the boy out of reach. There’s too much Samael in him already. Too much charm, too much danger. He could be Michael, he could be Azrael… but he could also be Lucifer reborn. And I won’t gamble the Angels on that.”


The seals shifted uneasily. One finally asked: “So what’s the plan then? The Riders are weak — why aren’t we hitting them while we’ve got a chance at greatness again?”


Ray leaned forward, his voice low, commanding.


“Because it would be suicide. The kid’s plan might have worked — but at the cost of hundreds of brothers. Even if victorious, it would’ve been a Pyrrhic victory. My job as Gabriel is to protect my men, not feed them into the fire. That’s why I didn’t allow it. And more than that — we don’t need it.”


He tapped the Bible again.


“The Riders’ only leader is old — a man from the Civil War, pushing a hundred. Samael holds them together with his wealth, with his golden tongue. But when he falls? They have no heir. Without Samael’s money-making, the Riders can’t hold recruits. They can’t attract newcomers the way we do. They have to buy them, bribe them. And when the money dries up, when he’s gone — they’ll turn on each other and collapse from within.”


Ray’s voice hardened. “That’s the plan. We wait. We protect our own. And when Samael falls, the Riders will eat themselves alive. That’s when the Angels rise.”

----


Deep in Minnesota, in the smoke-filled back room of a Riders’ mother chapter, voices were low but sharp.


“They say nobody can find who this Jack Brown is,” one of the older Riders muttered, pushing his glass aside. “No record, no trail. Ghost. And if we can’t place him, we can’t know if the Bible went missing before all this mess — or because of him.”


A silence fell over the table. The name alone — Jack Brown — had started to slither through the club like a curse.


Another Rider leaned forward, fists on the wood. “Doesn’t matter when it disappeared. If someone’s got the Bible, they got our history, our law, our claim to the truth. That’s power. Enough power to turn chapters against each other.”


The sergeant at arms spat on the floor. “And if this Brown bastard isn’t real? Then someone’s playing us with a ghost story, and I’d wager that someone’s got a vested interest in seeing the Riders bleed each other.”


The oldest man in the room finally spoke, his voice dry as dust:


“Don’t matter if he’s real or not. What matters is this: the Bible’s gone. If the Angels got it, they’ll know every crack in our foundation. If it’s in the wind, every outlaw crew in three states will come sniffing.”


He leaned back, eyes hard.


“And if the boy they whisper about is tied to it…” He let the thought hang, no one willing to finish it out loud.


Samael’s office was heavy with cigar smoke, the Minnesota cold kept at bay by too much whiskey and too much age.


“The ones from Chicago,” he said, waving a ringed hand, “the ones who swore God cursed them? They made a fair description. And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound like this Jack Brown. If his hair was dark. But that strange biker was blond.”


He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Get me sketches of this Jack Brown. Something’s off.”


One of the old-timers chuckled dryly. “With that jawline? Could be you back in the old days. Or that smart mouth your pet teacher in the basement described — the way he twisted words. And if those eyes were green instead of blue…” He trailed off, letting the room finish it in silence.


“Samael reborn,” another man muttered.


The table went still. Then someone asked, too casually: “You sure, Sam? You and Collins covered all your humps these last thirty years? No strays running around?”


Samael’s fist hit the desk hard enough to rattle the bottles. His voice cracked with rage:


“Yes! None of these dumb motherfuckers could produce a legacy worth half a damn. Always me cleaning up their mess, fixing what they broke. And the second they get out of my earshot, their loyalty’s in question. Every time.”


His anger drained to something softer, dangerous in its honesty.


“I wish I could hone loyalty the way Gabriel did. He had them eating out of his hand without lifting a finger. Me? I had to buy it. Trick it. Break it.” He paused, and for a rare moment his mask slipped.


“It still stings,” he said, almost whispering. “What I had to do that night. When Gabriel came at me in pure rage, and I had to choose — die there, or protect myself. All over a pair of tits.”


The room stayed silent. No one dared breathe, afraid they might be the one Samael’s eyes landed on next.


Samael leaned back, the weight of years in his shoulders. His voice came low, steady, like someone who’d stopped caring if the truth damned him.


“If it were up to me, I’d have retired years ago. Sat back, enjoyed the ride, let the next man take the reins. But none of you bastards could give me a legacy worth a damn. My last hope was a decade ago, and I was desperate enough to try a fucking Chinese woman. She was fun, well-paid… smarter than I thought. Even figured out my secret — the modulation — and tried to stand up to me. To protect the kid.”


He snorted. “Biggest disappointment of my life. The kid was white, not a chink, hair so blond it was near white. And that’s all he was. Just a brat. But I still remember — I grabbed him once, and the screech he let out? Shattered my words. Dropped me to my knees. Should’ve kept my dick clean. Out of foreign, ungodly women. Maybe it’s what I deserved.”


He poured another drink, hand trembling slightly.


“Seven years before Gabriel’s death, Jessy was pregnant. With mine. And I knew it’d break him. She refused to be reasonable. My tongue never worked on pregnant women. She wanted to make it public, tell the world we were having a baby. And I couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let her ruin everything. So I put my hands on her throat. Just to shut her up. Just to stop the words. But I lost myself in it. And when I snapped back, my arms were bloody with scratches. And she was gone. No response.”


For a moment, the whole room was silent except for his ragged breath.


“Life’s complicated like that. And if the Bible’s missing? Then the Angels have that side of me written down too. They can’t prove Jessy was robbed of her will. She wasn’t. She wanted Gabriel’s protection and my fun — both. But the rest? That’s raw. You don’t lie when you write the Bible. You bleed on the page so the future leadership doesn’t grow soft on lofty ideals. You tell the truth so they remember how ugly it really is.”


He stared into his glass, his voice dropping.


“The future needs someone who can lead. And I can’t live forever.”


The room went heavy after Samael’s words. Not one man raised his eyes. Not one of them could.


Because they were all guilty. Every last one.


They had kept their sons and daughters far from the life. Not like the Angels. The Riders had always been different. Order where the Angels had chaos. Rank where the Angels had mob rule. Discipline where the Angels had mayhem. That discipline had kept them alive when Azrael stormed through their chapters, when whole legions of brothers were cut down like wheat. The Angels broke. The Riders endured.


But order came with chains. It meant bloodlines mattered. To lead, you needed one of the highest rank’s blood. And none of them had provided it. Even Collins—Samael’s shadow, his fiercest defender—had kept his kids out. The truth stung. This wasn’t the life you gave to the ones you loved. Not when you knew where it ended.


Without a king, without a bloodline, they would unravel. The Riders had always been the club of law inside a lawless world. Outside, sure, they did as they pleased—business, blood, women, whatever. But inside? Inside they obeyed. That obedience had made them unbreakable.


But without a king, obedience turned to rot.


And it was Azrael—always Azrael—that haunted them.


That damned bastard. Very few knew the truth: the first Azrael hadn’t been white at all. He’d been black. Malachi’s bastard brother, born out of the old man’s double life. Two families, one white and proper, one hidden in the shadows. When the sons found each other, instead of fighting, they bonded. Ran cover for each other. Protected each other. The daughters though… they hated each other’s guts. The mothers worse. So the boys kept it quiet. Never hung around each other’s houses.


Old Malachi.


One of the men finally asked, voice rough with years and suspicion:


“Is he still alive? He’s got to be as old as Samael if he is…”


And in the silence that followed, no one was willing to say they didn’t know.


The silence in the Minnesota mother chapter wasn’t the kind born of peace. It was the kind born of fear.


Jack Brown.


That name kept circling the room like a crow that wouldn’t land. Nobody could pin him down. No past, no trail, no record. Just a janitor job that lined up a little too neatly with the end of the attacks on their chapters. The timing stank.


But Jack Brown didn’t exist.


Everyone knew it. Nobody said it.


The missing Bible weighed on them heavier than any chain Samael could forge. If the Angels had it, then every word of Samael’s rise, every trick, every betrayal, every weakness was laid bare. Not a sermon, not propaganda—the truth. And the truth was poison if the wrong hands stirred it.


“Funny,” one of the old men finally rasped, voice like dry leather, “those hits on our chapters stopped cold right about when this… janitor showed up.”


Murmurs. Tight throats. Eyes averted.


Samael’s lip curled, but whether it was at the suspicion or the memory, no one could tell.


“You saying this Jack Brown’s Azrael?” another asked, softer. “Because if he is… he’s hiding in plain sight.”


“No,” Samael cut in, too quick. Too sharp. “Azrael’s dead. Been dead. Don’t forget who put him down.”


Samael leans forward, voice gravelly but even.

“When the war ended, the world shifted. Cops came down like locusts. Mass arrests, sweeps, Rico charges — it wasn’t just us, it was the whole damn biker world. And we looked at the field and knew the truth: brute force had run its course.
Azrael was gone. Dead in the dirt with my brothers and theirs. Had we known that when the peace papers hit the table, maybe we would’ve gone back on the offensive. But the chance passed. Time does that. You miss the window, it doesn’t open again.
So we thought different. What’s the next rational step if you can’t outgun them? You outlast them. You let Uncle Sam do the work. You feed the machine their best men, make sure the law keeps chewing until nothing’s left but scraps.
And that’s what we did. Pushed the heat onto the Angels. Their brightest, their loudest, their up-and-comers — all in chains. The promising ones? Death row. Didn’t matter what color cut they wore, but you’ll notice half the ones facing the needle were black. That wasn’t random. That was tying off Azrael’s ghost so it could never haunt us again. You cut out the root, not just the branches.
And it worked. You look around today? Angels ain’t what they were. They’re holding on to scraps of their old glory. Meanwhile we kept our discipline, our structure, our house in order. We’re still the club of kings. They’re the club of beggars.
But don’t ever mistake it for chance. That was calculation. That was Riders’ law: you kill the legacy, not just the man. And if this Jack Brown is who they whisper he is, then either someone didn’t cut deep enough… or the dirt grew another weed.”

Ray pauses, pencil in hand, the pages of both Bibles spread before him. His eyes flick between the lines, noting the histories, the myths, the raw truths recorded in ink, and then it hits him.

Azrael… outcast for his skin.
WS… outcast for being some half-Asian, half-Scandinavian, neurodivergent-looking motherfucker.

He stops, and the corners of his mouth twitch. Then he bursts into that quiet, ironic laugh that turns heads in the room.

“Outcasts. All of them. Always outcasts. Fighting for their right to exist, and everybody else thinks it’s some moral crusade or divine plan.”

He shakes his head, still chuckling, muttering under his breath:

“Neurodivergent… what the hell even is that word? Christ, I’m spending too much time with my niece if I start using words like that.”

Ray leans back, laughter fading into a grin, realizing the absurd symmetry of it all — the way the world labels the ones who simply refuse to fit, no matter their strength, their legacy, or their blood.


Ray shuts the Bibles, smooths the wrinkles from his sleeves, and straightens his tie in the mirror. Suit crisp, hair just so, he checks his reflection one last time.

Time to leave the histories, the outcasts, and the absurdities behind… for now.

He grabs his coat and heads out the door, a sly grin forming as he thinks about his date with Amber, the hot psychologist who probably has no idea how much chaos and legend he just spent the afternoon digesting.


The night waits, and Ray is ready to trade angels and outcasts for conversation, charm, and maybe a little mischief.

 

[Warscared]

God, I should feel worse. I mean, look at him—Warscared, my little disaster turned… well, whatever he is now. Sitting there like a tiny storm contained, sharp, aware, but mostly… functioning. He’s alive, he’s reading the room, he’s talking to people without punching them in the face—and somehow, that’s a miracle.


I think about the first hours after he was born. Every woman in the hospital doting over him, cuddling him, kissing those chubby cheeks… and me, collapsed in the corner, exhausted, maybe drunk or high, maybe just too damn tired to react. That’s not exactly how you’re supposed to welcome a child into the world. And yet, here he is. He survived me. He survived us.


And yeah, maybe I resented him sometimes. My god, two kids barely keeping the house from collapsing, and then boom—here comes a third, tiny and demanding and probably cursed. I still remember Nami holding Vidal, me passed out, everyone fussing over a kid I barely got to touch at first… I could scream, I could cry, I could feel guilty forever.


But I can’t. Because look at him. He made it. Somehow, against all odds, the chaos, my mistakes, the world… he’s okay. More than okay. I’m proud. God, so proud it makes my chest ache. And damn it, I still blame him a little—like my life wasn’t hard enough, and this little brat had to show up and make it all more complicated.


Yet, here we are. Warscared, my son, a strange, brilliant storm of a boy, who somehow turned the chaos I couldn’t control into something… human. Not perfect, not angel, not Azrael—just alive. And maybe that’s enough.


watched him grow, and every step was… something. Tiny victories, little breakthroughs that felt monumental. The first time he spoke clearly, the first time he managed to sit through a meal without losing it over a spilled glass, the first time he actually laughed at a joke instead of just staring like he was calculating the humor—I held my breath through all of it.


He learned in his own time, on his own terms, stubborn as hell, but persistent. Watching him figure out how to deal with the world was exhausting, thrilling, and terrifying all at once. Every success felt like proof that maybe I hadn’t completely screwed him up. Every misstep reminded me how much he had to navigate, how much I had to keep an eye on, how fragile the balance of him being “okay” really was.


And yet… he did it. Not perfectly. Not like anyone else. But he learned, adapted, became someone who could exist in the world without breaking it—or himself. I couldn’t help but feel pride so sharp it hurt, watching this boy who had been so small and fragile, so easily overlooked, grow into someone sharp, capable, aware, and yes… undeniably himself.


Sometimes I catch him in moments of thought, quiet, calculating, or just staring off into who knows what, and I can’t help but marvel at him. That stubborn, brilliant, maddening boy, who made it through everything and still somehow made me feel like I’d done something right.


God, he made it hard, that one. Every damn day was a test—sometimes of my patience, sometimes of my sanity. I remember holding him when he couldn’t sit still for five minutes, rocking him while he screamed at the world because it dared to exist outside his control. I remember reading to him for hours while he stared through the pages as if they were invisible, refusing to speak, refusing to react, until suddenly… one day, he did. And it felt like the sun had come out inside me.


I’m trying to be honest… trying to be honest… the music hums in the background, and it hits me: I’ve been raw, I’ve been real, but I’ve never stopped being human for him.


I remember the ridiculous little victories—the first time he managed to tie his shoes without losing it, the first time he actually said “thank you” instead of just grunting. I wanted to scream and cry all at once because it was so small and so enormous at the same time.


And the tests… God, the tests. When he was ten, I dressed him in sunglasses, gloves, and earmuffs and walked him into that school to prove he could read and write. My heart was in my throat the whole time. And he… he aced it. Every single score, perfect. And then he bowed to the teacher, the tiny alien in gloves and shades, and shook her hand, thanking her for her patience. I wanted to collapse right there, laughing and crying and shaking him all at once.


He tested me—God, did he test me. Refusing school, refusing friends, refusing the world, and still somehow demanding everything I had to give. I think I blamed him sometimes, that little brat—because my life was already chaos, already full of bills, patients, and worry, and he had to show up and be… him.


I’ve been honest with him, honest with myself… and somehow, every time he made it through, every time he surprised me with some tiny spark of brilliance or insight, I felt like the world was slightly less terrible. Even when he screamed like the world was ending at seven, even when I thought I’d never see him sit still again, he learned self-control. He learned to be… human.


He’s stubborn, yes, unrelenting, brilliant, maddening, and somehow… beautiful in his own twisted, impossible way. Watching him grow has been exhausting, terrifying, and humbling. But I wouldn’t trade a second of it. I wouldn’t. That boy, my boy, came out alive, aware, capable, and undeniably himself—and I can’t even begin to say how proud I am. Even when I want to shake him and yell, even when I feel like he’s laughing at my exhaustion… I know he survived me, and somehow, that feels like the greatest thing I’ve ever accomplished.


He came out… different, even in the first moments. Tiny, fragile, yet somehow commanding, like he was aware the world existed before he did. I remember watching him in that hospital bassinet, seeing the pale glow of his skin under the harsh lights, the silvery flash of his eyes that seemed too bright for a newborn. Every nurse who touched him cooed and fussed, passed him around like some miracle, and I—God, I was exhausted—finally got to hold him hours later, and he was already… aware. Alert. Like he knew everything had been happening without him and now it was his turn.


His hands were small but strong, delicate but precise, and even then, you could see the tension in his muscles, the kind that made me think he’d never rest until he understood every motion, every sound, every glance. His features were sharp, almost too defined for a baby—high cheekbones, a little nose that flared when he was upset, lips that seemed to curl in defiance before he even learned to smile. And those eyes… they weren’t just blue—they were magnetic, pulling at you, forcing you to pay attention.


Even in those early months, I noticed the way he moved differently. His body was deliberate, cautious, and yet… explosive when he felt threatened or overstimulated. It terrified me at first, the way he could twist, flail, and yet somehow always land upright, eyes blazing, heart pounding. And I knew, even then, that he was… not like the other kids. Not just because of how he looked, but because of how he existed in the world.


And yet… despite all that strangeness, despite the constant vigilance and care he demanded, he came through it all. He grew strong, lithe, precise, with a presence that could command a room without saying a word. I watch him now, and I can’t help but marvel at it—the way his body carries him, the way his eyes always seem to see more than anyone else, the way he’s… alive in a way that feels almost impossible. For all the chaos, all the mistakes, all the exhaustion… he came out whole. And in that, I am both terrified and endlessly proud.


She let the song hum through the room, the dark chords of God Needs The Devil curling around her thoughts. She watched WS, her boy, and felt the familiar knot of pride and guilt twist in her chest. Blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, the way he carried himself… against all odds, he had come out… whole.


And she couldn’t help but think of Nami, her fiery, steadfast redhead. How had she managed it, standing there all those years, teaching him, holding him, guiding him through the chaos Nojiko had never been able to fully tame? Her little lieutenant, the one who had helped raise these boys, who had borne the weight of responsibility she had been too tired to carry herself. She had taught him patience, resilience, and sometimes, even courage.


Vidal, dark-haired and reckless, was a storm of need and obsession, and maybe some of that traced back to the whirlwind of their early lives. But WS… steady, measured, disciplined—he had Nami to thank in part for that. Her presence had been a quiet anchor, a hand on the rudder when the waters were roughest.


Nojiko sighed, guilt and pride mingling in her chest. Life hadn’t been gentle. She hadn’t been perfect. But looking at her children, at the boy who had become something more than she’d ever dared hope, and at the redhead who had helped shape him… not bad at all. Not bad at all.


Nojiko rested in the chair, letting the strains of Jacob Lee – Demons wash over her. She lit one of her old ways of dealing with stress—marijuana—letting the haze mellow out the world for a moment. Then the phone rang, sharp and intrusive, cutting through her reverie.


She picked it up, fingers trembling slightly, and heard news that tightened her chest and knotted her stomach. She said little, letting the words settle like a cold weight. When she finally hung up, her eyes were distant and troubled. Knowing she couldn’t stay, she rose from the chair, leaving the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air as the music faded behind her.

 

[Warscared]

WS rode south—through and through, this was Angel turf. It was where Azrael had been born, and most of the Southern rider chapters had been crushed. Survivors had fled to Minnesota or California. He could still recall fragments from Collins’ journal. Strange—Malachi never mentioned that his brother Azrael, his blood brother, was Black. Guess his father liked the hot sauce, not just the bland stuff served at the time.


When the war started, the Southern white chapters were the first to pledge outside their turf. They organized themselves when the Apostle of the South turned coat. He had been Gabriel’s Apostle, and since Gabriel was no more… but not all white chapters followed. Most called the Apostle a traitor and fought back with ferocity. The battle here had been the hardest, but Blacks and whites combined to hold the riders in a standstill. When the Hispanics from Florida rode north fully united, the riders were forced to retreat to North Carolina, trapped between the Northeast and the lands of the fallen Gabriel—a first real revenge from the South.


They should have crushed them completely, but Samael intervened, persuading them to stop, as he always did. Samael had hoped his Western chapters would conquer the plains quickly, only to discover a third of his bikers refused to move. Bloody Hispanics, considered white at the time, sparked a full-scale rebellion. He had never noticed that almost all chapters in California were white-Hispanic mix. The so-called “Black Purge” backfired, and his own turf turned against him.


Samael had to buy, bribe, and sweet-talk two Apostles, but Angels’ independent minds meant he could draw little from them. He froze Michael where he stood, pressed against him, and reclaimed the Great Lakes region, scattering the Angels into hiding. He could have taken the plains directly, but he wanted to encircle them. He tried twice more in the South, and by the third attempt, Azrael was born. All Southern rider chapters were destroyed. Samael tried to bribe or reason with Azrael, but the man was unyielding. Every great ride Samael sent got crushed, giving Michael a strong base in the South and Northeast, while Samael retained the West and North.


The plains became a battlefield until Azrael swerved west, raising Blacks and Hispanics to join the still-fighting Angel chapters. Soon, Texas and California fell, and he was coming for Samael. In a surprise turn, the riders were allowed to keep the North and the turfs they dominated—mainly places under siege—in exchange for peace. Too much blood had been spilled. But this meant there were only two rider chapters in the South and just one in New England. Massive, yes, but fully surrounded and easily taken out. The South was safe ground for any Angel to roam.


WS rode south with a mixed group of Blacks and Whites, only to discover they belonged to different chapters dictated strictly by skin color. A Black rider told him he had been patched into the Savanna Chapter as a legacy—both his father and grandfather on both sides had been Angel riders. But even legacies couldn’t break the old frontiers; exceptions were rare, like the Saint Louis Chapter, known as “The Great Salad,” which had Hispanics, Blacks, Whites, and even two Asians. Most chapters remained strictly separated by skin color—not that Black chapters never had one or two Whites, or White chapters a few mixed riders—but some old customs were hard to change.


During a stop for fuel and drinks, WS looked distant. The young man riding with him asked why. WS said there was no chapter for him in the South—he was half Japanese. The guy laughed, and the White boy muttered that WS had gone crazy from the heat. When WS explained his mother was Japanese, they first called bullshit, then remembered what they’d witnessed crossing the Gap: a madman shooting at crazy duck presidents while surrounded by the ducks. Fear had kept them from acting, and suddenly the story didn’t sound so unbelievable.

When they approached the splitting point, WS kept riding and switched on the radio—Tyler Braden – Devil You Know. The hum of the engine and the song’s grit pulled his thoughts back to his time helping Malachi on the farm. He remembered how he hadn’t been wrong: there was no immediate threat, so people never considered the need to stick together. The complacency of peace, the illusion of safety—it was a lesson burned into him now, as he rode through angel territory


He stopped again to meet some associate members of the Angels—these were the war masters from the Panhandle who had come up north for a concert. He recognized some of the names they talked about and muttered under his breath, fuck, I’m turning into a redneck. He kept a lapel over his rank of “Prospect.” Prospects couldn’t be patched in, which made him, as an Angels nomad, unique—but to these guys, an Angel was a friend. They kept the peace between themselves and the Louisiana Frogs—or was it Mississippi? Both clubs were associates, but they had their beefs.


Outside the chapters that surrounded the mother chapter, most regular chapters had to hustle. A concert was a good chance to do just that. Ten bikers would be picked to run security—a $20,000 contract. Several bikers worked as bodyguards in the area, but the real money came from those inside the concert who weren’t securing anything. Last month, a concert by a famous artist had turned $60,000 in profit from marijuana alone, not to mention all the other stuff. That was Angels business: they handled the “light” work while patched members ran the bigger operations.


WS thought back on his mother chapter. Ray was officially a high executive for Petrov Generics, pulling in $300,000 a year. Obadiah was listed as a janitor for the Petrov Mall, making $75,000. Jeremiah ran security at a refinery, officially $156,000. That was how contracts worked—some guys got paid for consultations on things as absurd as “how to brush your teeth properly.” It was the easiest way to move money while keeping it legal.


Out here, though, one couldn’t have four to seven yearly jobs just for existing. That reminded him of his stint as an intern at Zane Fashion Designs. It had been a few months since he checked, and unsurprisingly, his $5,000-a-month wage hadn’t been paid. He still had five stacks of cash, though. He transferred one to his mother via Western Union and wired the rest to his black card. That left him with about $120,000, plus a handful of small investments.


There was something about finding the right company that got him hooked. He had devoured Peter Lynch and most of the other great investors, but the nuances still eluded him. He kept it low, treating it as proof of concept—testing whether his market ideas were solid. So far, he’d only lost money. Beginners’ luck had never been his friend.


As he rode, WS kept circling the thought in his head: why weren’t the Angels running all the other gangs and taking their cut? He brought it up with one of the Hispanic Angels during a pit stop. The guy just laughed, shaking his head. “Out here? There aren’t enough big cities or gangs worth extorting. Maybe Atlanta, but everywhere else… people shoot first and ask questions later. Angel bravado won’t save you—it’s revenge for your dead body, not a shield keeping you alive.”


WS nodded, letting the words settle. Out here, the rules were different. Hustling didn’t mean dominance; it meant survival, adaptation. Contracts, concerts, side jobs—they were the only way to carve out something resembling order in a chaos that didn’t respect hierarchy. It made his small experiments in investments and calculated money moves feel… almost safe by comparison.


He asked if they didn’t have pimps working for them. One of the guys just shrugged. “Yeah, we do—but out here, we respect women. Unlike you northern assholes, who exploit them, force them to work. If a lady works, she keeps half her take; the pimp splits the rest. The town only has like 35,000 people, anyway. There’s a ceiling on what anyone can make.”


WS nodded, a smirk flickering across his face. He could almost hear the echo of his econ textbooks, the lessons about market size limiting profits and wages. Out here, survival wasn’t about squeezing every dime; it was about understanding limits, reading the terrain, and knowing when a ceiling was invisible but very real.


While riding through a bigger city, WS noticed a familiar tattoo on a man weaving through traffic. His instincts kicked in—he’d seen that design before, back when the Salvadorans had been a problem. Without hesitation, he followed, keeping a safe distance, eyes sharp.


The man led him into a narrow alley, and WS immediately sensed an ambush. Shadows shifted, weapons glinting under the dim streetlights.


“Checking in, nomad,” the man said in Spanish, voice calm but firm. “We’ve already paid this month. Keep your word and leave us be.”


WS’s blue eyes scanned the group. He shrugged slightly, letting his hands stay visible. The nomad cut on his jacket didn’t go unnoticed, and murmurs ran through the group before someone called the local chapter.


WS was escorted to the Angels’ chapter, the building looming with the weight of authority. Inside, the chief waited, his eyes sharp as he sized up the lone rider.


“What are you doing here?” the chief asked, his tone measured but laced with suspicion.


WS didn’t flinch. “I’ve got old grudges with some Salvadorans,” he said. “I’m planning to go back tonight, take care of it.”


The chief’s eyebrows shot up. “You… alone? Against an entire gang?” Shock laced his voice—any other man would have hesitated, but the audacity of a single nomad taking on so many made him wary. He stepped closer, inspecting the lapel over WS’s “prospect” patch. “Ray mentioned someone like you,” he muttered. “I needed to see for myself. You’re the one?”


WS nodded. “Yeah. But it’s nothing against the local guys. My business is with them, not here.”


The chief shook his head slowly, half in disbelief, half in grudging respect. “Ray wants you back,” he said. “And we’ll return you, even if we have to gag you and throw you in a trunk.”


Outside, the city moved on, unaware of the tensions that had just played out. WS left the building with the calm certainty of a man who knew he could walk into the storm and come out unscathed


Night cloaked the streets as Azrael approached the MS-13 crack house. The faint glow of neon flickered against broken windows, revealing tattooed figures inside—MS-13 symbols crawling across arms, necks, and torsos.


He moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate. No hesitation. Every person marked with the gang’s tattoos was cut down with precision. Women, men, anyone carrying the inked symbol of MS-13—gone. The innocents, unmarked and unaware, were left untouched, frozen in horror at the carnage.


When the last target fell, Azrael crouched by the wall. The spray can hissed as he painted the flag of Honduras, a stark signature of his vengeance.


Then he disappeared into the night, leaving the crack house silent, scorched by fear and the memory of a reckoning that came without warning—and would never be forgotten.


WS returned to the chapter house, unloading the spoils from the MS-13 crack house: guns, money, drugs—all meticulously cataloged. Two days later, while riding through the humid southern roads, he caught the news. The massacre had made the papers.


The brutality was unprecedented. Unlike the Northeast, the West Coast, or Detroit and Chicago—where violence like this could be buried, minimized, dismissed—the South didn’t let something like this slide. The story was everywhere, and the name of the perpetrator, though unspoken, would draw attention.


WS understood immediately: he had painted a target on his back. Ray knew where he was, and no doubt search teams were mobilizing, ready to force him back. For the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of a mistake pressing down. He had fucked up.


Jeremiah approached the Petrov mansion, asking to speak with Sasha. The moment he stepped onto the grounds, he realized he was outmatched—Sasha was surrounded by ten of her personal muscle, and Enessa Petrov herself stood at the edge of the group.


Jeremiah couldn’t stop staring. Enessa alone radiated a presence that made twenty men seem like children. The old Petrov patriarch had clearly invested heavily on his women, and Enessa’s aura, a dangerous mix of power and destructive energy, was no joke. Had she been a man, Jeremiah might have tried to recruit her into some sort of force—there was a possible Azrael-level threat contained within her.


But she wasn’t a man. The best he could hope for was… something far more fleeting.


Enessa’s eyes caught his, and for a moment, it felt like she could read every thought in his mind. Fear prickled down his spine. In that instant, he knew he was no match. Better to back down than push his luck.


“My good friend Jeremiah, what are you doing here?” Sasha’s voice carried a sharp edge, a spite that made it clear she despised even the idea of him standing on her grounds. Her eyes flicked over him, calculating, cold.


The only reason she had agreed to the meeting at all was because her grandfather had asked her to. That thought alone didn’t soften the disdain in her expression. Jeremiah felt it like a physical weight pressing down on him, heavier than Enessa’s intimidating presence just a moment ago.


He cleared his throat, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “I… came to speak with you, Sasha. There are things you need to know.”


Sasha’s lip curled slightly, as if she already knew the answer and found it laughable that he’d bother speaking anyway.


Enessa shifted slightly behind her, a silent warning. Jeremiah knew better than to take that as a challenge—but still, the pull of curiosity and danger was hard to resist.


Jeremiah leaned forward, sliding several sketches across the table. “Your boy has surfaced in the South,” he said, his tone measured but urgent. He gestured toward the drawings—WS with a beard and black hair.


“The riders are searching for him,” Jeremiah continued, his eyes meeting Sasha’s. “We have a vested interest in keeping the gunpowder and the fire from colliding. Consider this a repayment for your previous help and interest.”


He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “I know about your refineries in the Gulf. Technically, I work for one of them, so I know you have operatives down south. All the Angels are searching—but the asshole… he’s slippery.”


Sasha studied him, her expression unreadable, while Enessa’s presence behind her radiated the kind of quiet threat that made men second-guess their own audacity. Jeremiah felt it, a twinge of fear twisting in his gut. He knew he was walking a knife’s edge.


“This isn’t a request,” he added, voice lowering slightly. “We need your eyes and ears down there. Make sure nothing blows up before it’s supposed to.”


Sasha finally let a slow nod escape, her gaze flicking to the sketches. “Interesting,” she said, almost to herself. “You brought me a problem… but it seems you underestimated who’s handling it.”


Enessa shifted again, a subtle reminder that underestimating them could cost more than just pride.


Jeremiah raised his hands slightly, a gesture of surrender. “I… I apologize, Sasha,” he said, his voice tight. “Last time your news hit, it shocked us. Ray was ready to go to war. 895 had already pledged—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Which means at least three times that number were ready to ride in to help your boy.”


Sasha’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of calculation crossing her face. She leaned back, letting the weight of his words sink in. Enessa, standing behind her, didn’t move, but her presence was a silent steel barrier, radiating that same quiet warning Jeremiah had felt earlier.


“I understand the stakes,” Sasha said finally, her tone measured, almost cold. “And I understand the chaos your boys could bring if they arrive unprepared. But I didn’t ask for this war. You brought me a problem… now we’ll handle it the way it should be handled.”


Jeremiah swallowed hard. He knew better than to argue further. The sheer force of the women before him—Sasha’s intellect and Enessa’s presence—made it clear he wasn’t in control here. All he could do was provide what he knew, hope it was enough, and pray that WS didn’t make the first move that would ignite the powder keg.


Sasha leaned back in her chair, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “I know he was at the Cumberland,” she said, amusement in her voice. “It’s actually quite funny—Angels’ friends, like those crazy ducks, went to the riders complaining how roughly a single Angel nomad treated them. The fools still haven’t made the connection.”


She dipped a finger in water and lightly smudged the ink on the sketch, turning part of WS’s face white. “Best I can do is threaten to remove the riders’ contracts if they hurt him. But I’m done with that asshole. He doesn’t even know I exist.”


Enessa stepped forward, her presence as sharp as ever. “We traced back that mysterious 4 a.m. call you got. We had a spotter to identify him. Once we knew it was him, we backed down.”


Sasha’s brow furrowed. “Why did you do that?”


Enessa’s eyes flicked toward the door, cautious. “It wasn’t me. It was the old man. He wants more grandchildren… and, well, if he can make you happy, the old man is willing to invest.”


Jeremiah sat back, rubbing his temple. He exhaled slowly. “Fuck… first Azrael, and now the old Piotr. Everyone wants him.”


The weight of the situation pressed down on him—WS was untouchable in a way few could even comprehend, and now the world, from rogue Angels to powerful heiresses, had begun circling like predators.


Sasha’s eyes darkened as she traced a finger along the edge of the table. “Considering how I was invited to leave your clubhouse last time,” she said, her voice calm but icy, “I’m being more than generous.” There was a faint smirk on her lips, but it carried a subtle note of concern she didn’t bother hiding.


Enessa watched her for a moment, confused. Shouldn’t she be happy? She had poured vast amounts of resources into this boy. Surely she should be satisfied.


As Jeremiah quietly left, Enessa immediately turned to Sasha. “What’s wrong?”

Sasha’s gaze grew distant, her voice quieter. “That voice… the one that called me at 4 a.m.? That wasn’t him. It was someone… unraveling. Despair, sadness, fear, vulnerability… not the strength and certainty I associate with him. He might be… unraveling.”


Sasha’s gaze darkened. “You got his file from Amber’s secret folder?”


Enessa nodded slowly. “Yes. But some things… it might not be right for you to read them. Some things might cross a line you won’t be able to uncross.”


Sasha leaned forward, her curiosity sharp. “Have you… read his file?”


Enessa’s gaze was steady. “Files. There were far more than one.”


Sasha’s interest piqued. “So… what do you think?”


Enessa looked her in the eyes, and for a moment something cracked in her carefully maintained mask. “I read half of the first one… before a tear ran down my face.”


Sasha blinked, taken aback. “Enessa… normally you’re not so… sentimental.”


Enessa’s voice was quiet, almost grim. “I’m not. But seeing a child in suffering—even separated by almost a decade—is not something a normal person can withstand so easily.”


Sasha’s lips pressed together. “I’ve read his hospital files. He can handle pain that should break a normal person’s mind.”


Enessa gave a low, gruff laugh. “That’s nothing compared to what he endured. I advise you against reading them.”


Sasha’s curiosity only sharpened. She tried a playful smile, a light tease. “Now I’m even more curious.”


Enessa, however, just sent her a downward-cast frown, and Sasha froze, shocked.


Enessa stayed out of the room. She had faked a medical exam, claiming she was infertile, just to get the old man to relent—but she still remembered the five new white hairs that had appeared on his head when she delivered the news. She had even tried negotiating the use of a surrogate, but he was stuck in his ways: in his mind, a mother’s pain strengthened the bond with her child.


After everything her family had invested in her, Enessa had long since decided that most men were despicable and unworthy of her. She had learned to shoot while Sasha was still learning etiquette. She had judo lessons when Sasha was memorizing French. In the Petrov household, any lesson a girl could wish for she would receive—but slacking off was never allowed. Her grandfather’s dream was to mold the ultimate warrior, someone capable of protecting the family—a remnant of his life back in Russia before his father had fled abroad, taking most of the old USSR’s chemical secrets with him.


Sasha hesitated. “The boy… he might not be the right one. He might have been a mistake.”


Her grandfather’s eyes twinkled. “There are no mistakes, only expensive lessons.”


Sasha’s lips twitched. “His sister… she said that’s the kind of thing WS would say.”


The old man smiled, a slow, knowing curve. “Like him already, so. Move, beautiful one. Run toward your happiness. I don’t treat you well because I want you to be like me, my child. I treat you the way I do because I want what’s best for you.”


Sasha inclined her head and excused herself. “I will… read his psychological profile right now.”


Sasha sat at her desk in her private study, a blend of wealth and whimsy surrounding her—Hello Kitty figurines lined one shelf, while posters of Princess Ariel from Frozen adorned the wall. She pulled the thick folder toward her, cracking it open carefully, as if even the sound might disturb the secrets inside.


The first pages were clinical, dry, full of cold observations and assessments. But as she moved deeper, her frown deepened. Notes on early childhood development, behavioral quirks, and social struggles began to emerge.


Then, halfway through, she froze. Autism. WS had been diagnosed but it was hidden, largely unknown even to those who claimed to know him best. Indicators of difficulty in traditional social structures, hypersensitivity to overstimulation, and vulnerabilities that most would never see…


Sasha’s eyes flicked around her room, contrasting the boy described on paper with the man she knew now—the fearless, magnetic, terrifyingly capable WS. The contrast was jarring.


A chill ran through her. She understood, finally, why Nami had been so protective. Why the boy had been shaped and shielded so carefully. And then the anger came. Bella… that slut… taking advantage of someone so fragile, so alone. It made Sasha’s stomach twist with disgust.


She leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the posters and figurines, feeling the weight of the truth settle over her. This boy, this man, had survived far more than anyone should—and she now knew exactly why he carried that dangerous edge beneath his calm, confident exterior.


Sasha’s hand hovered over the next page, hesitant. She wasn’t sure if she could continue reading without letting herself feel the full depth of it.


Sasha forced herself to keep reading, even as the heaviness of the words pressed down on her chest. Each report, each page filled with clinical detachment, was another window into a boy’s suffering—WS as a child, overstimulated, misunderstood, constantly pushing against the limits of a world not built for him.


She clenched her jaw and pushed through. If he had endured it, she could at least read it.


Then something unexpected happened. A small, quiet smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She reached the sections covering his teenage years, the point where he had been absorbed into the biker world. The notes were blunt, even judgmental, but Sasha saw what they failed to recognize: only a group as hard, unruly, and unforgiving as outlaw bikers could have been strong enough to keep him, to put up with him. That was his tribe, his crucible.


Near the end, a handwritten annotation stopped her cold.


"He finally lets me call him Eyckardt. It must be because of the perfect, beautiful, sad, scarred princess he met… because I challenged him to interact with something interesting."


Sasha’s hand froze on the page. Her lips parted slightly, the breath catching in her throat.


He… finds me beautiful? Perfect?


She remembered the sharp way he had rejected her when she’d tried to call him Eyckardt. She thought it had been arrogance. But now…


Being perfect and beautiful doesn’t give me permission to call him by his name?


Her blue eyes narrowed, her heartbeat quickening. “We’ll see, Eyckardt,” she whispered, almost to herself, as a new fire sparked within her.


For the first time in a long time, she felt that dangerous mix of hunger and resolve.


Her thoughts spiraled. If that’s how Bella behaves, if that’s what it takes to draw him closer… then maybe I need to do more. He values Nami far more than Vidal. Perhaps if I can seduce Nami—


But almost as quickly as the thought formed, she felt a pang of disgust in her stomach. She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head, the princess posters and Hello Kitty figures mocking her for even entertaining such a strategy.


“No…” she murmured to herself, voice heavy with resignation. “That’s not me. That’s just not me.”


And for the first time, Sasha felt both closer to him and further away than ever before.

 

[Warscared]

WS leaned against the rusted railing of the balcony, cigarette smoke curling around his head as he pressed the burner phone closer to his ear.


“My hermano… ¿cómo están las cosas?” His tone was calm, even cheerful, though the weight in his chest never really left him.


On the other end, Salvador’s voice came steady, proud:
“Bien, bien, Ángel. Tu estrategia ha funcionado. Hemos liberado a dieciocho de nuestros hermanos. Número de hombres no son más un problema. Ahora és plata… no ganamos lo suficiente para nutrir a tantos.”


WS frowned, tapping ash over the edge. “¿Tienes alguna idea para tratar de eso?”


“Sí,” Salvador replied quickly, his tone lightening with a bit of pride. “Julien ha juntado nuestra plata. Abrimos algunos nuevos negocios y tiendas… y cuatro de los nuestros ahora trabajan con tu madre.”


At the mention of her, WS’s hand froze.


Then Salvador switched back into English, his accent thick but words precise:
“By the way, Ángel, my condolences on your great-grandfather.”


WS blinked. “What do you mean?”


“Your mother took a week. She is flying today to Japan for the funerary rites.”


The line went quiet for a moment. The cigarette burned low between his fingers.


“...Ok. Thanks, hermano.”


They said their goodbyes, but WS barely heard them. He tried Nojiko’s phone immediately. Off. Straight to dead silence.His mind started working faster than his body could keep up. He pulled open the old steel locker, spreading out the passports like a gambler laying down cards. Five identities. Four lies. One real. The one that proved he was the son of a Japanese national. His only tether.


He tried to remember every fragment Nojiko had ever told him about her hometown—a small village in the north of Japan, snowbound, forgotten.


“Mom… wait,” he muttered under his breath, as if she could hear him across the ocean. His jaw tightened, his eyes hard. “I’ll stand by you. You’ll never mourn alone as long as I live.”


His gaze shifted downward. Another sketch lay on the table. Jack Brown’s face, crude lines in black and white. He picked it up, thumb pressing into the paper, a scowl spreading.


“Unless,” he whispered, voice rough, “I’m not alive. And I’m the reason you mourn.”


The cigarette finally burned his fingertips. He didn’t flinch.


WS arrives at Narita Airport and immediately feels the walls closing in. Signs, directions, even the ads—everything was scribbled in a language he never learned. The shapes looked sharp, alien, impossible to break down.


"Kanto… right? That’s what they call this writing style?" he muttered to himself, mixing up the name of the region with the symbols on the boards. Perfect. Just perfect.


He tried asking for directions in English, but most Japanese either ignored him or shuffled away, embarrassed. Every polite bow felt like a wall. He clenched his jaw.


"Why the hell can’t I find an adult here?" he thought, as if the crowd of commuters and businessmen weren’t real grownups. Then it hit him—this was what people meant by “big in Japan.” Back home, he was dangerous. Here? He was just another lost foreigner drowning in the swarm.


WS dragged his boots across the polished airport floor, irritation growing with every ignored question. The symbols on the walls were nonsense—Kanto, kanji, whatever the hell they called it. All sharp lines, no meaning.


Then two uniformed cops approached him. They weren’t aggressive, but they didn’t look casual either. One raised a hand, speaking in fast Japanese, the other pointing toward a sign on the wall.


WS followed their finger and squinted. In tiny English letters under a mess of characters: Passport Control.


For a second, he felt the blood rush in his ears. He’d been wandering like an idiot, waiting for some showdown, when all he had to do was look down.


"Figures," he thought, smirking to himself. "Big in Japan, dumb everywhere else."

Warscared’s presence in Japan: At Edo airport, he stood out instantly — nearly two feet taller than the average Japanese around him. His long blonde mane caught every stray light overhead, making him impossible to blend in. He looked more conspicuous there than even a Petrov walking into an illegal race circuit.



WS leaned on the counter, trying his best in broken Japanese. The young officer replied in kind, straight-faced, though the words around them began to ripple with muffled chuckles. Soon, the laughter spread among those nearby.


The supervisor stepped in sharply, his voice cutting across the room in Japanese as he scolded the girl. She stiffened, bowing her head but clearly bristling.


Then he turned to WS, switching to English.
“I would appreciate if you did not make a mockery of our honorable services; your childish talk is making most uncomfortable.”


As the girl snapped back at him in Japanese, sharp and defensive, WS caught fragments — enough to follow half her meaning. But when the supervisor barked his reply, he could barely grasp a fifth of it. The difference struck him suddenly: they weren’t just speaking Japanese. They were speaking in different accents.


The girl’s face flushed under the supervisor’s scolding. She didn’t wait for him to finish. Instead, she snatched up the stamp, slammed it down on WS’s passport, and shoved it back across the counter.


“Come,” she said in her thick accent, adding something else he didn’t catch. Then she stepped around, took his wrist firmly, and pulled him out of the office before the supervisor could react.


Out in the terminal, WS blinked at the sudden open space, feeling unmoored. He wanted to stop, to ask for cigarettes, but the word slipped away from him. All he could recall was the blunt way his mother had once phrased it.


“Smoke… stick,” he muttered, almost barking the words.


The girl froze, staring at him, stunned.


The girl finally let go of his wrist, turning to face him with an uneasy expression. Her English came halting, stiff, like each word was an effort.


“That… is illegal. In Japan.”


WS blinked. “What, smoking?” He frowned. “I just wanted to stop by the duty-free, get me some packs.”


She shook her head firmly. “No. Drugs.”


His brow furrowed. “I didn’t ask for drugs. I didn’t ask at all. I just want to go and buy cigarettes. Cigarettes. Like—” He repeated the word he’d used before.


The girl’s eyes widened, then she cut him off sharply. “No. That word… drugs. The word in Japanese for cigarettes is tabako.”


WS froze for a moment, a flicker of memory passing behind his eyes. His mother, weary, speaking softly in Japanese when she thought he didn’t really understand—her voice spilling truth, sorrow, secrets. And he had just echoed those words, unknowing.


WS lowered his head slightly and muttered an apology in Japanese, rough but sincere. Then, switching back into the same broken tongue, he asked,


“How come… I understand you… but not him? Well… most of it, anyway.”


The girl hesitated, then answered carefully, “Maybe… because you talk… like me. My idiom. From the North. Here, in Kanto, they think… it is backward.”


WS let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.
“Figures. Even in a foreign land… I’m both — the outsider and the local redneck.”


The girl frowned, tilting her head.
“You are… red neck? Sunburn?” she asked carefully, her English strained and uncertain.


WS blinked, realizing she’d taken him literally. He almost corrected her, then just gave a lopsided grin and shrugged.


WS didn’t bother correcting her, just lifted his chin and asked,
“Duty free?”


The girl hesitated, still replaying her supervisor’s scolding, but pointed him toward the shops. As they walked, a thought struck her — in her rage earlier she hadn’t made him complete the wealth declaration. She might have just walked a vagrant straight into the country.


That worry vanished when WS stepped up to the counter, slid out a black business card with sharp gold Chinese characters, and casually bought four bottles of gin and two cartons of cigarettes without blinking.


He turned to her as the clerk bagged everything.
“You want anything?”


She shook her head quickly. “No.” But her eyes betrayed her, flicking once toward a sleek bag in the display, the price tag lined with dizzying zeroes.


WS followed her gaze, smirk tugging at his lips. Without a word, he tapped the counter and had it rung up.


When the receipt came through and he checked the exchange rate, he chuckled to himself.
“Ha. Only fifteen hundred bucks.”


WS glanced at her again, noting the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
“If you want it, take it,” he said bluntly. “I’m offering. Better take advantage before I leave.”


She froze, caught off guard by the directness. Her fingers twitched toward the bag but she didn’t move. WS tilted his head, half-amused.
“Seriously. Don’t waste time. I’ll just leave it here if you don’t want it.”


The subtle challenge made her gulp. Finally, with a reluctant nod, she accepted it, still wary of the casual confidence he radiated.


“I… must go,” WS said abruptly, his voice steady but carrying a rare weight of pride. “My great-grandfather… funeral rites… happening now. Never met him, but… if my mother came, I… follow. Keep her safe.”


Murimito raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable for a moment, then she gave a small, wry smile. “If your mother had a tattoo like that… the ones who’d need defending aren’t her. They’re the ones who crossed her. Over the years, our gang… we grew. Stuck by each other. So, inside that town? Sure, people might look down on me. But… no real danger. Not for me.”


WS nodded, absorbing her words. Somewhere between the pride in his promise and the weight of her history, he felt a flicker of understanding—of loyalty, of lines drawn and respected, and of the strange, quiet rules that governed people like them.


WS glanced toward the exit, his posture stiff. “Cab… train station… north?” he asked, voice clipped but urgent.


Murimito shook her head. “Too late. Should’ve planned your trip better.”


“Yes… but my mom… phone off. I… came as fast as I could,” he replied, the words tumbling out.


She studied him for a moment, then her lips curved in a small, approving smile. “Your mother must be proud… such a dutiful son.”


WS froze slightly. Pride… guilt… mingled uncomfortably in his chest. For the past six, seven months, he barely kept contact with her. He had come rushing now, but the thought of all the time he’d neglected her pressed down on him. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both his devotion and his failures.


Murimito grabbed WS’s hand, her grip firm despite being half his height, and led him toward the train. The ride was quick, the city blurring past the windows, and soon they were walking through Tokyo streets.


For WS, it felt surreal—a massive figure being guided by the hand by a woman half his size and twice his age, lugging his duffle bag as she navigated the crowd with ease. He finally muttered, “Is… anywhere to eat?”


Without missing a beat, she steered him into a small restaurant tucked between towering buildings. Inside, Korean and Chinese tourists slurped noodles and chatted loudly. WS’s eyes roamed over the scene, curious but restrained.


Murimito leaned close and whispered under her breath, her voice dripping with disdain, “These people… have no manners… are they even humans, or just animals wearing human clothing?”


WS blinked, unsure whether to laugh or just nod. The absurdity of being a literal giant in the middle of bustling Tokyo, guided like a child, combined with her brutal honesty, left him feeling oddly… at ease.


WS tilted his head, his long fingers brushing against his duffle bag strap. “What… a young thug like you… doing here in Tokyo?”


Murimito smirked faintly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I got bored of being safe,” she said, almost with a shrug, “so I decided to go on an adventure… with my boy. But he… ended up arrested, and I had no choice but to wait for him until he was released.”


She glanced around the restaurant, voice softening. “To make ends meet, I used my English and French… got a job at the airport. The supervisor? He’s proposed three times already. Each time I say no, he… well, he starts acting like he just saw someone insulting my accent, and all sorts of moral harassment.”


WS absorbed that quietly, eyes thoughtful.


Murimito leaned back slightly, her tone tinged with both nostalgia and determination. “Once Toji is released, we’ll return to the road… enjoy life again. In the meantime, I work, save, and prepare… so we can be happy once more.”


Her words hung between them, a quiet testament to survival, loyalty, and the patience it takes to carve out a life worth living.


WS admitted softly, almost to himself, “My mother… she never told me much about Japan. What she did share… she did in Japanese, late at night… brushing my hair, thinking I was asleep.” He paused. “Most of the time… I probably missed a lot of her stories.”


Murimito’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you a single child?”


“No… youngest,” WS said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I have an older sister… and an older brother.” He hesitated, then added, “My sister… she has fire hair. Her name’s Nami.”


The girl’s expression shifted instantly, surprise flashing across her face. “You’re… Nojiko’s child?”


WS froze, muscles tightening instinctively. A rush of defensiveness surged through him, his posture stiffening.


Murimito’s surprise softened into a contemplative expression. “I… met your mother when I was small,” she said slowly. “She was one of the eldest in my gang back then. I was just a child, using the gang for protection. Yesterday, I thought I might have seen her… but she was with a tall redhead woman, so I dismissed it.” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t have known who I was anyway. I left to study abroad over twenty-five years ago… and never returned.”


WS’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his muscles still hummed with tension. A mix of curiosity and something else—something quieter, protective—passed through his gaze as he processed her words.


WS said, “Merci pour votre aide aujourd’hui… vous parlez français aussi ? C’est ça, normal au Japon ?”


The girl laughed. This big doofus is full of surprises, she thought. She had only made a passing remark about French, and he had immediately picked up on it.


WS’s expression darkened as he asked Murimito, “Did you see a guy… slightly shorter than me? Black hair, arrogant as hell, even if he’s only slightly above average in intelligence?”


She studied him for a moment, then shook her head. “No… someone that tall would have stood out. I would have noticed.”


WS’s anger flared. That selfish, careless brother—always prioritizing his own attention over family—should have been here. His jaw tightened, and he muttered an excuse, “I need the bathroom,” before slipping away.

He locked himself in a stall and pulled out his new duty-free phone. He dialed Bella’s number

Bella grabbed her phone, already boiling over from Vidal clinging to her and milking their great-grandfather’s death for attention. When she saw a foreign number, her irritation spiked. “Who is this? What is this weird number?” she snapped.


As she listened, the voice on the other end—low, forceful, unmistakably WS—hit her like a wave. Every word carried weight, frustration, and a relentless drive that mirrored her own anger at Vidal. She ran toward the bathroom, her steps hurried, heart racing, not just from his presence but from the sheer intensity of what he represented: control, focus, and a reminder of the secret she had shown Sasha—the hand she’d extended that could almost bring him back.


The realization made her chest tighten. She had exposed herself too much; showing her hand to Sasha had nearly undone her, made sasha vulnerable in a way she hated. Yet now, hearing WS, she felt the strange pull of surrendering, not physically but emotionally, to the force of him—his voice marking the boundary between chaos and order, and placing her squarely back in the center of it.


Every word left her both on edge and strangely reassured. He was in the background, shaping the moment, directing her attention, holding the space between them, while her frustration and awareness of her own recklessness—the secret with Sasha—swirled into a potent mix of guilt, excitement, and inevitability.


Bella felt the force of his presence through the phone, aggressive and intense—just the kind of attention she craved. His words carried strength and warmth, and she could picture those piercing blue eyes, commanding and unyielding. It hit her all at once, like a sudden jolt that left her breathless.


Even as the initial surge faded, he didn’t let her settle. For several minutes, she rode the wave of his relentless energy, her shame and defenses shattering under the sheer force of his will. She realized how much she had needed this release, this confrontation with raw, unfiltered intensity—more than anything else in her life, even racing.


Her thoughts drifted despite herself. He was doing this with precision, maintaining control, yet never crossing lines that would endanger his brother. Still, her mind wandered: what would happen if he ever returned fully? She knew the world was watching—the Petrov family eyes, Sasha’s calculating gaze—and that no one could truly escape them.


The secret she had shared, how forbidden it was, added its own sharp spice. It had been a risk, a moment of vulnerability, but it made the intensity of the moment all the more consuming.


WS returned from the bathroom, his face still flushed, and Muri couldn’t resist a teasing smile. “Did you have a battle with the toilet?”


“I had to get my anger out,” he said, voice low, muscles still tense.


She led him to her apartment, and the evening unfolded in quiet intensity. They worked on his Japanese, turning his language skills from rough edges into something sharp and precise. Muri offered feedback in small doses—praise for effort, encouragement for persistence. Each word from her seemed to fuel his focus, and he poured all the frustration he felt at his brother into the lessons, transforming it into something tangible.


The smoke from her cigarette and the faint haze of alcohol created a private cocoon around them, a space where the outside world didn’t exist. WS’s concentration and drive were impressive, but what struck her more was the way he let his intensity spill into every gesture, every sentence, every corrected phrase.


For Muri, it was a rare moment of freedom—allowing herself to simply be present, to witness his fire and to encourage it. Seven years had passed since Toji’s imprisonment, with three more to go, and tonight, in the quiet of her apartment, they both found a release: he, in channeling his anger and passion into something meaningful; she, in guiding him and seeing the depth of his dedication. By the end of the night, the lessons had transcended language—they had become a bridge between their pasts, their frustrations, and a fleeting, intense connection that neither would forget.

(translation. he fucked the shit out of her!)

 

[Warscared]

The next morning, WS sat on the edge of the bed with his “Japan danger list” spread across his knees, muttering through the scribbles like he was decoding a war manual.


“Truck-kun, alleys, baths… right, right.” He stopped at the last note and stared at it for a long while: NTR Hero??


He pushed himself up and walked to the mirror. His reflection stared back—tall, broad, golden-haired, with that restless energy behind his deep blue eyes. The type of man drawn in every manga panel as the villain. The thief. The one who swoops in and takes what was never “meant” for him.


WS tilted his head, thinking out loud. “In these stories… the NTR guy is always tall, blonde, cut, like me. But he’s painted the enemy. The bastard who ruins everything. Why would anyone tell the story from his side?”


His grin spread slow and wide across his face.


“Because maybe… maybe he’s not the villain at all.”


He leaned closer, eyes glinting. “He’s the one fighting for the girl’s right to experience life. To live. That’s not theft. That’s mercy.”


For a moment, WS just stood there, grinning at his own reflection, the paper dangling loosely in his hand. Then he laughed under his breath, almost a growl.


“I’m no background character. I’m the hero.”


WS was still grinning at his reflection when the paper was suddenly snatched from his hand.


“Oi,” Murimito said, squinting at the scribbles like she’d caught him passing notes in class. “How old are you, acting like this? Writing down… Truck-kun? Alley rapes? NTR villains as heroes?” She looked at him with mock scolding, but also genuine confusion.


WS didn’t hesitate. “Sixteen.”


The word hit her like a slap.


Murimito froze, the paper trembling slightly between her fingers. “...Sixteen?” she repeated, her voice smaller, uncertain. Her eyes flicked from his shoulders, his jaw, the way his presence filled the room—back to that calm, careless expression. He looked so much older. Everything about him radiated a maturity that didn’t match the number he had just spoken.


Some things suddenly made sense—his bursts of defensiveness, his raw edges. But others… others just became far more complicated.


Last night.


Her stomach twisted. She pressed her lips together and looked away, shame pricking her skin. What kind of lewd woman am I? Corrupting the youth, giving in just because I wanted to feel free for one night…


Across from her, WS tilted his head, studying the storm of expressions flickering over her face. Guilt. Disbelief. Self-reproach.


His brows pulled together slightly. “Why’s your face doing that?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.


Murimito didn’t argue with him anymore. Instead, she grabbed another scrap of paper, scribbled something down in sharp strokes, folded it twice, and shoved it into his hand.


“It’s for your… quest,” she said dryly. “If you get into trouble, show that to someone. They’ll know what to do.”


WS raised a brow but pocketed it without question, as if she’d just handed him a magic talisman.


When she walked him toward the bullet train, her thoughts still spun—half tangled in guilt, half in disbelief at how quickly he had dismantled the walls she thought she had. Then WS, unconcerned as ever, slipped out his brand-new DJ Masterpiece, the duty-free purchase he’d been proudly flaunting, and tapped play.


The speakers blared instantly—no earplugs needed.


Heads turned. Commuters stopped mid-step. Conversations froze. Murimito’s cheeks went red as if she were the one carrying around a massive Swiss cowbell, each beat of the bass tolling her shame to the entire station. She wanted to melt into the tiles.


And then the song kicked in—Sugarland – Stuck Like Glue.


WS grinned, shoulders rolling with the rhythm, letting the lyrics crash over him. Somehow, the goofy, stubborn devotion of the song mirrored exactly what he felt about his family. No matter the years, no matter the distance—he was stuck to them like glue. He thought of Nojiko’s quiet hands brushing his hair in the dark, Nami’s fiery laugh, and for once his grin softened into something gentler, warmer.


WS grinned, shoulders rolling with the rhythm, completely at ease under the sea of stares. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that she was burning beside him, mortified at being paraded like some absurd spectacle.


He might have been going to a funeral, but he didn’t feel grief. The man in the coffin was nothing but an old stranger who’d stretched his life to nearly a hundred years. No bond. No memory. No weight.


But on the other side of the train ride—his mother, his sister. The two most important women in his life. That tipped the scale so heavy toward joy that the funeral was just a shadow in the background.


He slid his new DJ Masterpiece onto his head, the speakers booming loud enough for everyone around to hear. The opening chords hit, Cole Swindell – She Had Me At Heads Carolina, and WS grinned wide, letting the music announce him like a banner. Heads turned, some staring with curiosity, others with quiet disapproval.


WS, unfazed, tugged at her hand and tried to spin her into a dance. She yanked back immediately, mortified. “Not here,” she hissed.


She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, hoping to pacify him, but WS never settled for half-measures. He caught her, pulled her close, and kissed her full on the lips, passion burning in the middle of the platform.


Gasps shot through the crowd. Eyes widened. From the windows of the waiting train, commuters stared openly, their thoughts plain: Did that foreigner just kiss a woman in public? Shameless. Barbaric. No sense of propriety at all.


WS broke the kiss with a smirk, stepped back, and shouldered his bag. Without hesitation, he walked onto the train, the doors closing behind him as the song still blared.


Murimito stood frozen in her mortification, lips tingling, watching him vanish northward toward his reunion.


By the time the train doors slid shut, Murimito was no longer a weight on his mind. He had left her behind at the platform, lips still burning, face still red. To him, she had been an information booth with a smile — someone to polish his Japanese, sharpen his tongue, and point him in the right direction before he moved forward.


And he had paid her. Not with money — he wasn’t that cheap. He had given her his time, his focus, his fire. He had poured passion into her like she had never known, a repayment more powerful than any envelope of yen could buy. Eastern girls didn’t usually get a man like him, not with his reckless heat, not with his unashamed hunger. She had tasted it. That was her reward.


Now it was done. She was part of the scenery behind him, like neon lights fading in the distance once the bullet train picked up speed. Ahead lay the real goal — his mother, his sister, his blood.


The music still played, Cole Swindell’s She Had Me At Heads Carolina pounding through the headset, and WS leaned back in his seat, grinning wide, already imagining the reunion to come.


The steady hum of the bullet train was broken by the deep voice of Josh Turner echoing faintly from WS’s DJ masterpiece — Long Black Train rolling like a hymn for the journey. He hadn’t bothered with earbuds, but at least now the volume was low enough that only those nearby could catch the tune.


A schoolboy in a crisp uniform stepped closer. In polished English, he said, “Excuse me. Could you please respect others and lower your loud maker?”


WS tilted his head, then grinned. His reply came in heavily accented, but sharp and clear Japanese:


“Is it really bothering you?”


The boy blinked, thrown off. This towering blond westerner had just answered him in his own tongue — not perfect, but undeniably fluent. WS leaned forward, voice steady but carrying a challenge.



“I may look like a barbarian,” he said, voice rich and commanding, “but even dumb Japanese can speak their tongue. Surely someone of higher standing should do the same?”


The boy’s eyes widened, unsure how to respond. “Where are you going?”


“Aligasawa. My great-grandfather’s funeral,” WS replied coolly.


“I’ve never heard of an American old man living there,” the boy said. “I’m from Fukaura.”


WS’s grin widened, his posture relaxed but proud. Finally, he thought. Someone sees me, not just some foreign brute.


“You must have hated him,” the boy ventured, “to sound so happy about going to his funeral.”


WS’s tone dropped, calm but icy.
“No. He suffered enough. I am glad he finally gets the rest he deserves.”


WS leaned back, towering over the group, watching the college kids buzz with debate. All barely a foot shorter than him, but every one of them looked up, literally and figuratively, as if his shadow carried weight. For the first time on this train, he wasn’t alone in his obsessions.


“So… y’all follow the newest stuff?” he asked, voice rough, teasing, daring anyone to lie.


Three of the guys perked up, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, Solo Leveling’s insane,” one said.


WS shook his head, a grin crawling across his face. “Pfft… sad, man. My favorite Korean manga? Finished. Done. Over.”


“Which one?” a kid asked, leaning forward, curiosity sparking in his eyes.


WS’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “Seoul kids these days,” he said, loud enough that everyone in the little corner could hear.


The boy’s eyes went wide. “…Wait… they’re making a second volume?” he stammered, the flush creeping up his neck. He’d just admitted to reading Korean porn manga, and now it was out there.


WS laughed, low and indulgent, clapping a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Hell yeah! Seoul kids these days! Can’t believe it!” His chest heaved with the excitement of the story, unashamed and unapologetic.


Then he paused, tilting his head, locking eyes with the boy. “I’d shake your hand for the good news…” he said slowly, letting it hang. “…but considering what we’re debating? Nah. Better not.”


The flush deepened on the kid’s face, and the group froze for a heartbeat, half in awe, half in shock. WS leaned back, laughing quietly to himself, savoring the moment—the perfect mix of power, honesty, and chaos. For once, he wasn’t a foreign barbarian. He was a hero in his own right, commanding respect without trying.


The debate resumed around him, but WS stayed in his own orbit, smiling. He’d left his mark—bold, irreverent, unforgettable.


The shaken kid slumped into a seat, still flushed with shame, headphones dangling around his neck. WS, towering over the group as usual, clicked his fingers and a new track filled the car: Rodney Atkins’ If You’re Going Through Hell.


He leaned down just slightly, his thick-accented, street-ruffian Japanese spilling out as he translated the lyrics with exaggerated gestures and theatrical pauses, making the whole car glance over.


“Most of the hells we go through,” he said, voice low but teasing, “are self-created. And if you can create them… well, you can sure as hell overcome them.”


He leaned back, smirking at the kid. “Now… let’s sit down, keep debating, and… no more mischief from me. Probably. Maybe. Well, I guess… we will see!”


The kid blinked, a mix of relief and awe written across his face. Around them, the college boys started murmuring excitedly again, the earlier tension melting into fascination and respect. WS, as always, remained the impossible giant, equal parts menace, mentor, and mischief incarnate.

One of the younger boys, cheeks still pink from earlier events, nervously pulled a notebook out. “I—I’m in engineering,” he said,


Without a word, WS snatched the notebook from the boy’s hands. The young engineer blinked in surprise, opening his mouth, but WS didn’t care. Around them, his small group of college boys shifted nervously, the air thick with anticipation—twelve hours to go, and boredom already threatening to fracture the circle.


WS leaned over, squinting at the numbers, finger jabbing at the first glaring error. “This is wrong,” he said, voice low, carrying that weight of absolute certainty. He started scribbling calculations on a spare sheet of paper he pulled from his own bag, each stroke deliberate, commanding attention without asking permission.


The boy tried to protest, but the others quieted him with worried looks. WS’s music player, already four hours through its battery life, hummed quietly—five hours total, barely enough to carry through the ride. He glanced at it but ignored it, focusing on entertaining, dominating, and impressing the group, keeping them engaged in real-time as he rebuilt the flawed engineering plan from scratch.


“Stronger base here,” he muttered, “redistribute that weight there… obey the laws of physics, and this will stand.” His thick, dated Japanese accented words carried authority; the students watched him, equal parts terrified and fascinated.


One hour later, the battery warning flashed. WS glanced at it, smirking. He had a few tricks left to keep the ride alive. Music could wait. Attention, entertainment, control—this was his domain.


One of the boys, curiosity breaking through the tense studying, asked, “Hey… the girl who wrote that paper for you… is she cute?”


WS let out a low, amused chuckle, throwing his grin wide as if they were in some clubhouse rather than a bullet train. “Cute?” he said, shrugging. “She’s just another fling I picked up on the spot. Nothing special, really.”


Another boy, not missing a beat, asked, “Married?”


WS’s grin sharpened, eyes glinting with that mix of amusement and detachment. “Her man?” he said. “He’s been in jail for seven years, still got three to go. I’m just helping the poor thing while she waits. That’s all.”


The boys exchanged looks—half baffled, half impressed. WS leaned back, satisfied with the ripple of disbelief he left in his wake, utterly unbothered by the moral weight of his answer.


One of the boys hesitated, then asked, “How… how do you even do it? Approach girls?”


WS’s eyebrows shot up, his grin spreading. “What?”


The boy clarified, a little flustered, “I mean… you just… how do you start talking to them?”


WS leaned back, eyes glinting with mischief and authority. “You just do. Stick up a conversation. That’s it.” He chuckled and shook his head. “When I started, it was brutal. Awkward as hell. People laughed, I got shut down… a lot. But you keep trying, that’s the secret. You fall flat on your face, you get back up. Every. Single. Time.”


Another boy, more timid, asked, “And what if… what if she rejects you?”


WS’s grin turned wide, almost predatory. “Depends. You like her?” he asked, leaning in. The boys nodded. “Then you’re screwed. Heart’s out there, vulnerable, crying in the wind. Don’t like her? Then what’s the problem? Nothing. Zero. Nada. So—practice first. Approach the ones you don’t care about. Get your hands dirty. Build some armor before you put your heart out there!”


The young boy swallowed nervously. “Ever… ever approached a girl you liked?”


WS’s smirk turned knowing. “Yeah.”


“What happened?” another asked, leaning forward, full attention now on him. Even grown men in nearby seats were straining to hear—the preacher had arrived. Japanese society, full of polite, shy men too timid to approach a girl, was suddenly an audience for a sermon unlike any they’d heard. WS’s voice rolled over them like Sunday morning in the deep south.


“They laughed. They mocked. Some were cruel. I fell flat. I got hurt. But I got back up. Every single time. And eventually? Eventually… you get her attention, and the ones worth having… notice.”


A hush fell. The boys were leaning forward, eyes wide, scribbling mental notes. The train rattled on, but in that small cabin, WS was preaching a gospel of boldness, audacity, and relentless practice—and everyone was hanging on every word.


WS’s grin widened, his voice low and deliberate, as if he were narrating a scene meant to be etched in memory.


“I saw her, Sasha Petrov, moving through the crowd like she owned the place—and I decided, no hesitation, I’m talking to her. Just like that. Walked up, nodded, and started a conversation. Casual. Light. Like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing I’d ever done. Then the bodyguards noticed.”


He leans forward, hands gesturing as if shaping the chaos in the air. “And oh, they intervened. Tried to push me out, threw a punch or two just to see if I’d back down. But here’s the thing—if you’re not willing to take a punch for a girl, if you’re not willing to stand up when it matters, maybe she’s not worth a punch. But some… some are worth dying for.”


WS smirks, eyes glinting with mischief and pride. “So I gave them a show. Movements sharp, calculated, not a wasted step. Each dodge, each strike, performed like a dance. She was watching the whole time. Not a flicker of fear, just curiosity. Admiration even. And I never stopped talking to her. Never stopped moving. Never stepped back.”


He throws his head back, laughing softly. “She saw me. That was all that mattered. The crowd, the punches, the chaos—it was nothing. All that mattered was her gaze, and I made sure she saw I wasn’t going anywhere. That I was worth it.”


The boys listening lean in, some mouths agape, some shaking their heads, unable to believe the audacity. WS just sits back, smirking, letting the story hang in the air like smoke.


WS leans back, the memory lighting his silver-blue eyes. “So I moved, fast and precise, dodging punches, striking where I needed. Every bodyguard who came at me? Countered. Every mall cop? Handled. All while keeping my eyes on her. Sasha. She was watching, studying. And I… performed. Like it was a show, like she was the audience of one.”


He grins, letting the tension linger. “But eventually… yeah, eventually, they overwhelmed me. Multiple fists, boots, and a hell of a lot of body weight. They threw me down. Didn’t matter. You know what I did?”


The boys lean in, desperate.


“I stood proud.” WS says it slowly, with weight. “You can be defeated. It happens. There’s always someone tougher, faster, stronger than you. But you never show weakness. Never.”


A pause. Then he leans forward, voice dropping, almost teasing. “Weak men make a woman go… drier than…”


One of the boys blinks. “Dried fish woman?”


WS bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “No. No such thing. There are no dried-fish women. Only men who can’t act out their fantasies, or who are really bad with their tongue… and fingers.”


Half the guys are frozen, eyes wide. The other half are laughing so hard they’re slapping the seats. WS just sits back, smirking like he’s the only sane man in the room, letting the punch line hang like a razor-sharp blade.


“And that,” he adds, voice casual, “is why Sasha noticed me.”


One kid can’t help himself: “So… when are you two getting married?”


WS chuckles, leaning back with that signature wide grin. “Probably never. I’m not good enough for the Petrov ice queen. Not even close. But that spark? That glance? That’s all history will remember.”


As WS finishes his story, a quiet hum of curiosity sweeps through the train car. One by one, the college boys start fishing their phones out of their pockets. They lean close to each other, shoulder-to-shoulder, whispering, thumbs flying across screens.


“Petrov… Sasha Petrov?” one murmurs.


“Yeah… ice queen, right? That one?” another replies, eyes wide.


They huddle like a small pack, scrolling through every search result, every news snippet, every social media trace they can find. Some tilt their phones toward each other to compare images, others sit back, letting the shock settle on their faces.


WS watches them, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Go ahead,” he says casually, arms crossed. “Look her up. You’ll understand why some fights… some risks… are worth taking.”


The group doesn’t even hear him fully—they’re too absorbed in the hunt. Whispered exclamations float across the train car. “She’s… she’s insane.”


“She’s… untouchable.”


“She noticed him… really noticed him?”


WS leans back, eyes scanning the young men, amused by their awe. Let them dig. Let them speculate. It’s part of the legend now, and he’s the one living it.


Just as the boys lean closer, whispering and sharing screens, their phones flicker. Icons freeze. Messages fail to send. Then, abruptly, all devices disconnect, like someone yanked the plug on their digital world. Confused murmurs rise.


At the same time, hundreds of miles away in the Petrov headquarters, the command center is buzzing. Screens flash alerts: a sudden spike of over fifty searches originating from Japan.


“Where did this sudden interest come from?” one analyst asks, scanning logs.


“Well, better keep this under surveillance,” the senior operative replies. “If it’s malicious, we’ll handle it immediately.”


“Do we have anyone in that region?” another asks.


“The lumberjacks over in Kamchatka, but… no real firepower,” someone answers.


“Get someone over there. Tap everything happening on the ground. We don’t know if this is innocent curiosity—or something targeting the family.”


The lead nods, eyes fixed on the screens. “They were searching for the Ice Queen, not just Sasha Petrov. This isn’t trivial.”


The Petrov family’s infrastructure hums behind the scenes: five public relations companies, four dedicated to each top family member, one for the rest. Every whisper, every rumor, every search had layers of monitoring and rapid response. And now, the sudden spike from Japan had set the entire apparatus on alert.


Back on the train, the boys’ devices remain dead, the whispers of Sasha Petrov hanging in the air. None of them know that their curiosity just triggered the quiet mobilization of one of the most meticulously guarded families in the world.


Some of the older guys had been quicker than the rest—they’d saved a photo of Sasha before the phones went dead. After resetting their devices, the images resurfaced. One by one, the boys leaned over, eyes wide at her cold, detached beauty.


“This… this is the girl?” one asked, almost breathless.


WS shook his head slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “No,” he said, voice low and certain. The words made the boys stiffen in surprise.


“Wait… what do you mean? That’s her!” another protested.


“When she’s with me,” WS said, letting the statement hang in the air, “she smiles.”


There was a pause. None of them had ever seen a picture of her smiling—Sasha Petrov was always poised, icy, untouchable in every image. But some of the boys, the ones who had caught the undertone, nodded slightly, as if they finally understood.


“You want a girl,” WS continued, voice almost conversational now, “you keep her happy. Everything else is just… noise.”


The group fell silent, the weight of the statement settling over them. It wasn’t about conquest, or power, or even beauty. It was about making someone truly care, truly smile. And that, the boys realized, was a lesson they’d never forget.


The train rolled on, hours slipping by, but WS’s energy hadn’t waned. He leaned back in his seat, eyes scanning the crowded cars, and then suddenly he stood, shoulders squared, and began making small demonstrations. Approaching a group of girls near the window, he looked each of them square in the eye and, with a grin that could disarm the hardest heart, let out a simple, elongated, “Heyyyyyy.”


The effect was immediate. Most of the girls flushed bright red, some staggered, fumbling to hand over their phone numbers. The small circle of boys who had been watching gasped. One of them, jaw practically on the floor, whispered, “How… how did he do that?”


WS leaned casually against the railing, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “It’s an old American trick,” he said. “If a girl finds you worthy… she reacts in her soul to the ‘heyyyy.’ Started with Fonzie. The last grandmaster? Joey from Friends.”


Amid the laughter and awe, one of the boys, eager to try, stepped forward. He let out a tentative “He… hey…” and immediately stumbled over his words, turning beet-red. The girls giggled awkwardly and drifted away. The boys erupted in laughter.


Everyone—except WS. He strode over to the failed volunteer, placed a firm hand on his back, and leaned close enough for only him to hear. “These laughters you hear?” WS whispered, his voice low but piercing. “These are the cowards who couldn’t find the courage to try… and are just finding excuses not to even try.”


The boy swallowed hard, eyes wide, and something shifted in him. WS gave him a nod and stepped back, letting the lesson sink in, the train rumbling on as their laughter mixed with the distant echoes of possibility.

WS slid back into his seat, letting the rhythm of the train calm him after the small flurry of demonstrations. That’s when he noticed it—Japanese trains had actual power outlets. A small revelation for the modern traveler, and for him, a chance to keep his devices alive. Phone charging, music at the ready—he had all the tools of a DJ master, if only he had the patience to spin them.

WS leaned back in his seat, the soft hum of the train underlining Rascal Flatts’ Here Comes Goodbye from his phone. The melancholy tune contrasted sharply with the chaos of the past few hours, but he let it wash over him. The music forced a rhythm into his thoughts, almost like a metronome for language practice.


He tapped his notebook with one hand, scribbling down tricky pronunciations, mimicking the melody to catch the flow of Japanese words. His accent still betrayed him, heavy and rough like a street ruffian from decades ago, but the music gave him a strange sort of confidence. Two weeks, maybe less, and he could sound almost… natural. Or at least as natural as a 23-year-old American giant could hope to be while speaking a thirty-year-old Japanese dialect.


He let the lyrics echo in his mind—goodbyes, fleeting moments, people coming and going—and realized that maybe it wasn’t just about words. Social cues, eyes, the little pauses, the unspoken expectations… that’s where the real mastery lived.


With a half-smile, he hummed along quietly, imagining the girls from earlier, imagining Sasha—imagining what it would take to make them truly see him. Accent or no accent, brute or genius, he had one shot at making an impression. And maybe, just maybe, the music reminded him: every goodbye was practice for the next hello.




The train screeched to a halt, and WS stepped onto the platform, the cold biting at his face. He felt a tight knot of apprehension coil in his chest. This wasn’t just another train ride—he had no idea what awaited him at the shrine. His mom and sister loved him, he knew that—but still, anxiety surged. What if things went wrong? What if he misstepped?


Two of the younger guys descended with him, breaking through the tension with easy chatter. “Normally, this ride is pure boredom,” one said. “But today? Honestly… you were fun to hang around with.” WS let their words sink in, a flicker of ease threading through the nervous coil in his chest. The ride had been more than passing time; it had been a lesson in observing, in gauging society, in understanding people and refining his Japanese.


Then, one of them pulled the other’s sleeve and whispered sharply, “The ruffians are here!”


WS tensed, but he didn’t panic. He had traded his boots for sneakers, knowing the ice and snow would slow others, not him. Shadows stretched across the shrine’s approach, and he moved like a wraith, slipping silently along the edges where light faltered. His companions walked ahead, oblivious, chatting about the ride as if nothing threatened them. WS melted into the darkness, every step precise, every muscle ready. Ice and snow crunched softly beneath him, but to him, it was nothing—a familiar rhythm.


From the shadows, he could watch the path, the entrance, and the faint forms moving near the shrine. Anxiety had not disappeared, but it had transformed—tightened, sharpened into awareness. Every instinct, every lesson learned from the house on the hill, every moment surviving through stealth and observation, came alive. He waited, silent, a shadow among shadows, poised for whatever—or whoever—dared to cross his path.


WS approached silently, melting into the shadows near the shrine. Three men huddled, their voices carrying a crude mix of lust and entitlement.


“The savage red beauty… she does anal, right? All American girls do it…” one slurred. Another suggested, “We get her drunk, take her to a motel… show her a good time. While the boss distracts the old white tiger granddaughter, we snap pictures, make her mother relent… marry the boss… get rich off her shame…”


WS’s blood ran cold. Every word was poison aimed at someone he loved.


A sudden, thunderous punch struck one of them down. And then, a voice erupted—booming, raw, in perfect, northern Japanese, each word laced with fury that curdled the blood:


“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING ABOUT MY SISTER?!”


It rolled over the ruffians like a tidal wave of hell itself. WS emerged from the shadows, each step deliberate, every muscle coiled for battle. The two remaining men froze, eyes wide, instinctively retreating toward an old man standing near Nojiko—but WS didn’t see the elder; he only saw the blood, the red beauty, and the plans for his beloved sister.


Every nerve screamed retribution.


He let his voice thunder again, the sheer weight of it vibrating through the air:


“SAY IT ONE MORE TIME! CALL MY SISTER A SLUT ONE MORE TIME!”


Even the cold wind seemed to pause in fear. The ruffians’ bravado shattered—they were dwarfed by the raw, merciless force of his presence. WS’s eyes burned with a single, unyielding purpose: they would pay.


All Nojiko could hear was the roar of a demon from the myths her grandfather had once whispered about—the legends of giants walking among men.


A massive figure stepped out of the shadows. One punch had already sent a man flying over six feet, and now he walked toward some of her old gang friends. Every step dripped with fury; every heartbeat carried killing intent. Men froze, petrified, unable to react.


The two guys he approached retreated instinctively, stumbling back toward her and the old gang boss. The elder froze, whispering under his breath, almost to himself: “The old tiger isn’t even cold in the grave… and now a new demon walks this city…” His legs faltered.


Then the red-haired daughter leapt between her men and the monster. Her voice, sharp and pleading, cut through the chaos:


“Warscared! Please… control yourself!”


Nojiko’s blood ran cold when she heard the name, and instinctively she screamed:


“EYCKARDT! STOP!”


Time seemed to hang suspended, the air electric with raw power, fury, and the desperate need to prevent bloodshed.


Amid the frozen fear, Nojiko’s grandmother remained unnervingly still. Neither the demon-like figure nor the thrashing ruffians fazed her. She sat with the air of someone who had seen empires crumble and armies fall, aided by her daughter—Nojiko’s mother—who hovered close, protective but equally silent.


A low chuckle escaped her lips, a strange mixture of North Korean and Japanese spilling from her mouth, a sound that made all the family’s old friends shift uncomfortably. Memories of old rivalries and wartime enmities came flooding back—they remembered she had once been an enemy, a fierce presence before she married a Japanese man she had saved, smuggling him out of Korea as the Russians advanced.


He had fought relentlessly, holding a sector of 150 Russians against impossible odds. The only sector that had never collapsed at the end of the war. And now, as she watched the younger man in front of her—the furious, untamed force—she recognized that same raw beauty. Time had not dulled it; in his rage, she saw it again, alive and unmistakable.


Her calm, knowing laughter contrasted sharply with the terror around her, a reminder that some forces of nature were never truly tamed.


WS froze mid-step, his roaring halted instantly. The words that had shattered his fury were a single, piercing sound—“Eyckardt!”


No one had the right to call him that. No one.


And yet, as he turned, he saw them—his mother, eyes wide with fear, and his sister, Nami, standing directly in front of him, pushing against his chest, grounding him in the chaos. He could barely feel her small frame, yet it anchored him. The storm inside him, the blood and rage, began to ebb.


He wrapped his arms carefully around Nami. “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice still edged with the residue of fury. “But what those men had planned… for her… it won’t go unavenged. They will pay for their words.”


Then, almost unnoticed at first, a tiny figure approached—a midget of a woman, delicate but deliberate. She tugged gently at his hoodie, coaxing him down to her height. For some reason, he obeyed, drawn to her calm presence, her unwavering assurance.


Her tiny hand rested lightly on his jaw. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, speaking words he did not comprehend.


Nojiko leaned forward. “What is she saying?”


Her mother translated, smiling through the tension. “Welcome home, child!”


In that instant, all the fear, all the rage, all the bloodlust softened—WS felt something he had not felt in years: belonging.


WS tried to answer her back, but all that came out was a tentative, “Sunbae-ssi…”


The old woman chuckled, a soft, knowing sound that seemed to cut through the lingering fear around them. She said something quickly in a language WS didn’t understand, and he tilted his head, waiting for a translation.


Nojiko’s mother spoke up. “She says… you better stick to Japanese. You’re not smart enough to speak Korean!”


WS’s eyes narrowed slightly, a sly smirk forming. “If I had that mentality,” he shot back in perfect English, “I’d speak English, you dried-up old plum!”


For a heartbeat, silence. Then, as if recognizing the mischief in his tone, the old woman leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. WS froze, momentarily disarmed, and the absurdity of the gesture hung in the air—but somehow, he understood her entirely.


Even amidst the chaos, a strange warmth threaded through him, a reminder that strength didn’t always have to roar—it could also wink, tease, and endure.


As the chaos slowly receded, WS tugged off his hoodie, letting the cold air brush against his exposed shoulders. His cut, angelic in its precision, glinted faintly under the winter light, the word Nomad still etched across his skin like a mark of survival and defiance.


He knelt, carefully performing the rituals he had studied—descendent’s rites meant to honor the dead, to soothe the lingering spirits, and to assert respect for the elders. Nojiko’s trembling lessened as he moved, each gesture deliberate, precise, almost hypnotic in its focus. The old gangster, still clinging protectively to her, kept his eyes locked on WS, suspicion etched into every line of his face.


Nami whispered explanations in her thick, deliberate Japanese, recounting how her brother had arrived and what he had endured. But the old woman barely acknowledged the words, like they were whispers lost in the wind. Eighty years had taught her to ignore trivialities, to trust only strength. She had survived wars, betrayals, and the cruelties of men, and she saw through the polite masks of the Japanese. No matter the façade, she recognized power when she saw it.


The others watched, a mixture of awe and unease, as WS moved through the motions—part ritual, part silent assertion of dominance. And through it all, the old woman’s gaze never wavered, sharp as a hawk’s, daring anyone to pretend they were anything more than they truly were.


That night, as they prepared to go to the family house, thirty thugs showed up, all sporting the same tattoos WS had seen on Nojiko. The man, perhaps ten years older than her, said:


“I can’t leave her unprotected with such a beast. What if he loses control again and hurts her?”


Nojiko finally snapped, pushing him away.


“Do not talk about my sweet golden boy like that!”


The thugs closed in behind their boss, trying to intimidate her, and Nojiko faltered for just a moment. It was then that WS stepped behind her, his presence daring them to give him any excuse to settle scores over their previous words. When they hesitated, she realized—her boy had her back.


Memories of her own doubts surged: she had cried over how fragile, innocent, and pure he was, worried the world would crush him. And yet here he was, facing down thirty Yakuza gangsters and scaring them into submission. She knew her old boss would never attack if she could be hurt, but she also knew WS could rip apart every last man in the shrine if necessary.


When she had first heard the stories of Azrael, she hadn’t connected them to the old man who had raised her—but now she understood. The same fury. The same battle wisdom.


"I hate the man I become when I am forced into war!"


The same warrior’s blood ran through him.


As they walked home from the shrine, the snow crunching under their steps, Nojiko spoke softly to Nami.


“That old man… he kept me safe. He was the most caring man I ever met, always devoted. One night, when I got drunk, he took my virginity. And the very next morning he nearly shat his pants asking for my hand in marriage—before the most terrifying man in northern Japan. He was brave, yes… but to face the old White Tiger? That’s not courage. That’s being out of your mind.”


Nami gave a little smirk. “Or totally lost in love.”


WS, who had been listening in silence, finally interjected. “He sounds like Vidal.”


Their mother stopped in her tracks, stunned. She frowned, started to argue—then paused mid-thought, chewing on the comparison. Finally she sighed.


“…I suppose my third favorite child really is like that. Devoted to the point of madness.”


Her tone was sharp, but there was the faintest hint of pride behind it.


As they walked, Nami glanced at her mother with curiosity.
“Why didn’t you marry him? I mean… he had some money, a gang of men around him, and he clearly loved you.”


Nojiko shook her head, eyes distant.
“Because I was raised by the old White Tiger on stories of war and what it does to men. That’s why I became a doctor. Why I built my clinic between the social projects and the barrios. The poor are always at war—against hunger, against poverty. They need healing, not more war.”


Then her gaze slid sideways to Warscared.
“Speaking of which… why did you put five of your boys on voluntary shifts at my clinic?”


WS frowned.
“Five? I know of four.”


Nojiko’s mouth tightened.
“Plus Salvador.”


That made him blink.
“…I didn’t know Salvador was volunteering.”


“Not anymore.” Nojiko’s voice sharpened. “The day I let a gang leader walk around my clinic is the day it stops being holy ground. I threw him out. That place is a church.”


She studied her son, almost accusing.
“Those Hondurans seem to love you. What did you do for them?”


WS’s voice dropped.
“I bled. I fought. Back then I wanted to tell you, to share it with you… but you wouldn’t listen. So.” He shrugged faintly. “If you still want to know…”


Nojiko cut him off, shaking her head quickly.
“No. I’d rather keep my image of you—the pure, innocent boy. My sweet golden child.”


Nami tilted her head with a mischievous smile.
“So now that it’s official Vidal comes in third… who’s your favorite, Mom?”


Nojiko didn’t miss a beat.
“You are my favorite daughter.”


Nami squinted.
“I’m your only daughter!”


Nojiko shrugged.
“Exactly. Makes it easier this way.”


Nami leaned forward, pressing.
“So then… is Warscared your favorite?”


Nojiko’s lips softened into a small, secretive smile.
“He is my favorite son.”


WS couldn’t stop himself from smirking, tilting his chin up like a king crowned.


Then, dry as desert dust, he muttered,
“I can’t help but feel that if Vidal were here and I weren’t, this conversation would go very differently.”


He looked at his mother sideways, blue eyes gleaming.
“A mother has to tell her kid he’s the favorite. It’s like… a moral obligation, I guess.”


Nami broke into laughter, shaking her head.
“God, you’re impossible.”


Nojiko fixed her gaze on Nami, steady and sharp.
“When you become a mother, you’ll understand.”


Nami raised an eyebrow, lips curling with defiance.
“Maybe. But if I ever do, I’ll only have one. That way my kids won’t turn me into a liar like you.”


She pivoted to her brother, eyes narrowing.
“What about you, brother? How many kids are you aiming for?”


WS leaned back, smug as sin.
“None. If they come, they come. But, statistically speaking, the average kid pops out after about 240.5 humps… so half the work for the first one is already done.”


Nami recoiled, face twisting.
“Ugh—you’re disgusting. Pig.”


Before WS could gloat, Nojiko cut in, arms crossed.
“His math’s wrong.”


WS raised his brows, offended.
“It’s not. I’ve run the numbers.”


Nojiko smirked, her words like a scalpel.
“Your math would only work if it was with the same woman. But we all know how much of a manwhore you’re becoming.”


WS shook his head and muttered,
“If it worked like that, I wouldn’t even exist.”


Nojiko leaned against him then, slipping her arm through his and resting her weight just slightly. Her voice softened in a way that made him stiffen.
“Yeah… you were a miracle.”


WS blinked, caught off guard, heat rushing to his face before he could stop it. He actually blushed.


Nami pounced instantly.
“Ohhh, look at that. Mister ‘I can take on thirty men,’ Mister ‘cold-blooded killer face’… one little compliment and he’s turning pink. If you were a girl, you’d be screwed.”


WS snapped back with a crooked grin,
“If I were a girl, I’d blackmail my way into being a millionaire off every creepy old man dumb enough to cross my path. Squeeze them all dry.”


Nojiko’s hand came down sharp against his arm with a slap.
“Be a proper sister to your sister—and set a proper example!”


WS rubbed the spot with a wince but smirked anyway, enjoying the chaos he stirred.


Nami burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.
WS just shrugged, straight-faced.
“Even if I was a girl, I’d still be the youngest. The example should come from you, Nami. I only act according to my nature—inside the boundaries my education set for me.”


Nami groaned, waving her hands.
“No. No, no—we are not debating Piaget again. I am not doing this with you.”


Nojiko tilted her head, amused, cutting in with her calm voice.
“Besides… if you had been born a girl, I would have raised you differently.”


WS smirked, the faint blush still lingering.
“Then I’d probably be even scarier.”


WS had just leaned back, the soft strum of Mitch King’s “Coming Back” filling his room, when the door cracked open.


Nami stepped inside, wearing nothing but her underwear.


WS instantly threw a hand over his eyes.
“What the hell, Nami—”


She smirked, unfazed.
“Please. I’m sure you’ve seen worse.”


“Better,” he shot back without thinking, lowering his hand just enough to glare at her. “Definitely better.”


Her fist met his shoulder with a dull thud.
“Brute.”


He retaliated without hesitation, a sharp slap to her backside that made her yelp.
“Reminder, sis — I’m bigger now. Careful who you pick fights with.”


Nami crossed her arms, pouting like she was still sixteen.
“What are you even doing in here, Nami?”


“Mom’s sleeping with Grandma tonight. By great-grandmother’s room. So we’re supposed to stay here.”


WS pointed at the hallway.
“There are more rooms, sister. And for the love of my eyes, put on at least a pajama.”


Rolling her eyes, she slipped into her pajama top and flopped onto the futon across from him. Then, with the bluntness only she could wield, she sighed.
“You know… I think I finally get what Mom meant when she said boobs like mine are considered double D’s in Japan.”


WS raised a brow, fighting a grin. He remembered when she used to be so insecure about her chest, how she’d whisper complaints in the dark when they were kids. Once, at nine years old, he’d tried to reassure her — told her they were “fine.” It had come out completely wrong, mortifying them both. Lesson learned: never make comments about female bodies inside the family.


He leaned back against the wall, smirking faintly at the memory.
“Took you long enough to catch up.”


Nami lay across WS’s back, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” she murmured.


“It’s been a few years since you did this,” WS said lightly, though a hint of nostalgia lingered in his voice.


“I never properly thanked you,” she admitted, voice quiet.


“Those dudes had it coming,” WS replied. “I’d tear them to shreds if they ever tried anything again.”


Nami shook her head gently. “Not that… back when Vidal was bigger than you, he used to tease me, calling me double A’s or ‘Plank.’ The only time you ever fought was to protect me. At the time, I was so distraught, crying… I forgot to thank you.”


WS stayed still, letting her words sink in, a soft weight of shared memory and care settling between them.



WS’s voice softened, almost reverent, as he spoke, eyes fixed somewhere distant, reliving the weight of all those years.


“You… you made far more for me than I could ever repay. You brought me up from the darkness into the light. I… I can still move like nobody else in the darkness… but that’s not life. So I guess what I mean is…”


He let the words hang for a beat, then reached over and hit play on the DJMaster. The opening strains of Noah Rinker – Save My Soul filled the room, a pulse of energy and melancholy intertwined.


“…I just want you to know I’m here because of you.”


Nami, feeling the weight of the confession, shifted slightly on his back, letting the music carry them both through the quiet intensity of the moment.


WS leaned back slightly, letting the music hum between them as he spoke, voice sharp but measured.


“Most economists… they’re nothing better than charlatans. Snake oil salesmen in suits.”


Nami tilted her head. “They have their use in society, don’t they?”


He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “No. They don’t. It’s a cult. Even their pope—the one they worship, Maynard Keynes—stated in no uncertain terms that an economist who knows nothing of life isn’t a real economist. He called them snake oil salesmen. And these recent monetarist zealots… it’s bullshit. They try to destroy families like ours.”


His gaze softened as he gestured vaguely toward the world outside. “Mom’s a doctor. She counts pennies. You’re almost as brilliant as me in legal terms, and yet the best society can gift you is six figures in a year or two… while they print ten, eleven, twelve figures. Where does all that water run to? I ride those streets. People aren’t better off.”


Nami frowned. “So… Adam Smith was a charlatan too?”


WS smirked. “No. Adam Smith was a philosopher. He struck gold when he read a poem about vices developing societies. That’s where real insight comes from—not some spreadsheet cult worshipping numbers without knowing life.”


The room was quiet for a moment, the music keeping the weight of his words afloat.


WS leaned back, letting the music fill the silence before answering.


“Theory on value? Easy. Work is calories we harvest today to consume in the future. The economy… it started with agriculture. If you can’t store value, you don’t have an economy. But evidence shows humans traded before agriculture.”


Nami tilted her head. “Yeah, out of necessity, not over profit. What use is a diamond?”


WS’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly. A diamond doesn’t feed you. But calories you can store for the future? That creates the perspective of tomorrow. Men work today to receive in the future. That’s what gives labor value. Not just stuff for its own sake.”


He paused, the rhythm of the music underscoring his thought. “I’m not sure if God created the economy or the economy created God… but both are geared toward the future. Both demand planning, foresight, sacrifice. Both give men the ability to act today with tomorrow in mind.”


Nami nodded slowly, letting the words settle. “So value is really just… survival made abstract.”


“Exactly,” WS said, eyes narrowing slightly, “but abstract enough that men fight, die, and trade over it without realizing it’s still just calories.”


WS leaned forward, speaking with the same intensity as before.


“Clothing? It’s simple. Clothes help you save calories. You don’t waste energy keeping warm, so those same calories become more valuable.”


“Houses?” Nami asked.


“Houses protect you from the environment,” he said. “If you don’t get sick, you spend fewer calories fighting disease or recovering. That preserves value.”


Nami frowned slightly. “And luxury articles?”


WS’s eyes glinted. “Ah, that’s the second driver of the economy—sexual access. Reproduction. Luxury items increase your appeal, help you reproduce, pass on your genes. That’s why humans invest in more than survival. Calories alone aren’t enough; you need social and sexual leverage to ensure your future.”


He leaned back, letting the idea hang in the room like a challenge. “Economy isn’t just work and trade. It’s survival, foresight, and reproduction, all wrapped in calories and human behavior.”


Nami tilted her head, arms crossed, a skeptical look on her face.


“Wait a second,” she said. “You’re telling me the whole economy is just about calories and sex? What about art? Music? Literature? Those don’t exactly help you store energy or get laid.”


WS chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, that’s where foresight and signaling come in. Art, music, literature—they’re costly. They require energy, time, resources. That cost shows your ability to survive and invest in the future. And yes, it also signals status, which indirectly affects reproduction. It’s all connected.”


Nami raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying Beethoven composed symphonies because he wanted to show off his calorie management and get laid?”


“Not exactly,” WS replied, smirking. “But his symphonies proved he could harness time, energy, and skill—he was valuable. Humans recognize value, even subconsciously. That recognition shapes the economy.”


Nami shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You really think about everything in terms of survival and reproduction, don’t you?”


“Of course,” WS said, leaning back. “Everything humans do boils down to those two drivers, whether they admit it or not.”


WS leans forward, eyes glinting with intensity.


“Exactly,” he says. “That fourth orange? That’s leverage. That’s influence. That’s the part of the economy they keep for themselves to control the rest. If you try to complain or resist, they’ve already got someone on payroll to shut you down. It’s not magic—it’s just theft dressed as policy.”


He gestures with his hands, painting the scene in the air. “Fiat currency isn’t just money; it’s a tool of oppression. They make everyone else work for oranges while pretending their water is juice. The working man’s savings? Gone before he even realizes it.”


Nami frowns. “So basically, the government is just… cheating everyone?”


“Cheating?” WS chuckles darkly. “More like structuring the game so the house always wins. And the worst part? Most people don’t even see it. They’re too busy counting their ‘glass of juice,’ thinking they have wealth, when it’s been watered down the whole time.”


WS leans back, a sardonic smirk forming.


“You see, that’s the beauty of it,” he says, voice low but sharp. “Inflation’s not about prices going up. It’s about social engineering. It crushes the majority while elevating a few. The poor pay just to keep their money safe. The rich get paid to have it. You don’t think that’s intentional? That’s the entire system designed to make accomplices out of winners and serfs out of everyone else.”


He taps the table lightly. “It’s a club. If you survive, you’re invited in. If not… well, your oranges are gone, and you get the watered-down juice for the rest of your life.”


Nami raises an eyebrow. “So the economy isn’t neutral at all… it’s basically a social predator.”


“Exactly,” WS replies, leaning forward, eyes glinting. “It preys on the unprepared, rewards the clever—or ruthless. That’s the truth most economists never tell you.”


WS: “Sasha, Bella, Robin, Ayuah… they didn’t climb the ladder—they were placed at the top. That changes the game entirely. Survival isn’t about struggle, it’s about control. They wield influence, guard their turf, and manipulate outcomes while most people are still scrambling to earn a foothold. They’re born into power, but that doesn’t make them weak—it makes them… untouchable if they play it right.”


Nami: “So inherited wealth is easier?”


WS: “Easier to acquire, yes. Easier to lose? Absolutely. Privilege comes with invisible chains. Misstep once, and it all collapses. The real test isn’t making money—it’s keeping it and making it matter.”


WS: “…Sasha… yeah. She’s… different. Not just because of the money or the connections. She… she actually cares. And that… that’s rare. Most people care about appearances or power. Not her. Not Robin. Not Ayuah. They actually see you.”


Nami: “…I know. That’s why I trust them. They make life easier. I never had many chances to make friends… but with them and Nadjia, it’s different. Sasha calls every day just to check on me. Robin… she gave me a phone that works anywhere. And Ayuah? She said if I ever needed, the Zanes could get me out in less than a day.”


WS: (quiet, almost to himself) “…I get it now. It’s not about climbing the ladder… it’s about knowing who’s actually got your back. Money can buy a lot, but not that.”


WS: “…You ever wonder if the amount of money you have actually correlates with how many people you can trust? I mean… if you have nothing to lose, maybe you can afford to trust. But hit the lottery, suddenly you’re rich, and the curse kicks in—you’re still naive, and the wrong people slip in.”


Nami: “…So it’s not just money that changes things, it’s who sees your money and what they want from it.”


WS: “…Exactly. Rich doesn’t make you safe. It just makes the traps bigger. And people? They smell the traps before they see you.”


WS: “Well… good night, Nami. I was up all day yesterday, so I’m running on empty. Try not to wake the world while you sleep.”


Nami: “Good night, WS… thanks for everything today.”


WS: “Always. Sleep well… and remember, even when I’m out cold, I’ve got your back.”


The quiet settles, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside—just enough to remind them that, no matter the chaos of the day, family is still the safe zone.

 

[Warscared]

The next morning, WS walked into the dining hall expecting something simple. Instead, the room stretched out in front of him, a long table filled with nearly eighty-five people. The chatter of cousins, the shuffling of aunts and uncles—it was a small army.


He leaned toward Nojiko.
WS: “Eighty-five? Are we feeding a wedding?”
Nojiko: “Only half the clan came. The old prune birthed eleven children who survived… this is just their families. Seniority decides the seats.”


Sure enough, each child and their brood fell into place in an invisible order. The room quieted as the ancient matriarch began to speak.


Before WS could fully process, his grandmother grabbed his hand and tugged him forward. Suddenly, he was in front of his great-grandmother—the tiny, shrunken woman whose presence alone seemed to weigh more than the whole room.


Without a word, she raised her cane and whacked him sharply behind the knees. He buckled instinctively, dropping down—only for her to settle herself on his lap, as if he were a chair. Then she calmly picked up her chopsticks and began eating breakfast like it was the most natural arrangement in the world.


WS sat frozen, unsure if he should laugh, cry, or lift her like an honored throne. Around the hall, jaws dropped. Cousins stared, uncles whispered. Even his mother and grandmother—two women who rarely looked surprised—were blinking at him in shock.


His grandmother had once been the weak branch of the clan, carrying only one child and never birthing more. For decades, they’d been seen as the smallest, the least. And yet here he was—his lap chosen as the matriarch’s seat, an honor so outrageous it overturned the unspoken pecking order.


No one looked more stunned than WS himself.


WS endured. His thighs burned, his lower back screamed, and the weight of the old woman on his lap felt heavier than her frail frame should allow. It was the single most uncomfortable seat of his life, but he clenched his jaw and bore it—for his mother.


He knew what this was. Before he and Nami had joined her that morning, their mother had already been admonished, quietly scolded by a few aunts and uncles for her son’s behavior the night before—violence unleashed in the middle of funeral rites. She had bowed, apologized, but shame lingered in the air.


Now WS carried that shame on his lap.


He had pulled his long blond hair back the way he had seen in old samurai films, exposing the sharp lines of his jaw. The look made him stand out even more against the sea of dark-haired cousins. He caught their glances: disgust etched on some faces, barely disguised resentment on others. Yet when his smile drifted toward the female cousins, more than a few looked away blushing, cheeks betraying what their mouths never would.


The old matriarch ate slowly, deliberately, as if savoring both her food and his pain. Then she tilted her head, voice sharp and brittle with age.


Great-Grandmother (seemingly in Korean): “Aren’t you eating breakfast, boy?”


The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t the words—it was the sound. His brain tripped over it. Something was wrong.


She hadn’t spoken Korean at all. She had spoken English. Broken English, heavy with a Korean accent. And yet everyone nearby assumed she was barking in her native tongue. None of them knew enough English to tell the difference.


WS blinked. This woman—who had spent her life in Japan, who had birthed eleven Japanese children she never forgave herself for raising—had just revealed her weapon. A hidden tongue. A way to speak without being understood.


This was the woman who had been born under occupation. Who had watched soldiers drag away her older sisters. Who had seen girls in her village brutalized and left broken in the dirt. Her contempt for Japan was no act; it was carved into her bones. And yet, here she sat, with eleven Japanese children to her name, a matriarch ruling them all from the lap of her blond-haired, foreign-looking great-grandson.


And she had chosen him as her seat.


WS took a moment, rolling the words on his tongue, forcing his jaw and breath to match her rhythm. He let his voice drop, slow and deliberate, copying the cadence she used.


WS (in Korean, accented): “Grandmother, you are light in the arms. I only fear my strength might harm so fragile a mummy.”


The old woman’s lips curled, not quite into a smile, but something sharper—mockery, amusement, approval all tangled together.


Great-Grandmother: “Hah… the most delightful Manchu accent.”


A ripple of murmurs spread down the table. Even those who couldn’t understand the words could see her reaction. She reached with her withered fingers, plucked up a rice cake, and without ceremony shoved it between his lips.


Gasps echoed. Cousins froze with chopsticks halfway to their mouths. Aunts and uncles looked around in confusion.


The matriarch had broken every layer of etiquette in one motion. Hand-feeding. With her bare fingers. In front of the clan. To the blond giant who—until now—they assumed was mute in their tongue.


And then came the second shock.


Cousin (whispering): “Was… was that Korean?”


Another cousin: “That foreigner… he’s speaking Korean?”


Dozens of eyes locked on him. The hall buzzed with disbelief.


The matriarch, however, did not care for the stir she had caused. She sat back, comfortable as if she’d chosen him as her throne on purpose, and waved her cane lazily at the others.


Great-Grandmother (coldly): “Eat.”


The room obeyed.


WS chewed the rice cake slowly, glaring at her sideways. She smirked, leaning on her cane, and whispered again in that twisted English-with-Korean-lilt only the two of them understood.


Great-Grandmother (whispering): “You sit like a horse. I should have chosen a pillow instead.”


WS (muffled, low): “A horse at least carries weight with dignity. You squeak like an old rat.”


She barked a laugh — a dry cough that sounded like a curse — and, ignoring every horrified glance at the table, grabbed another cake with her bare hand and shoved it into his mouth.


Gasps again. But no one dared speak against her.


They kept at it. Between bites she shoved down his throat, the insults came one after another, always in that strange accent.


Great-Grandmother: “Your hair is straw. Ugly as a scarecrow.”
WS: “And yet, grandmother, the crows fly closer to me than to your children.”


Her cane thumped against his thigh, hard enough to bruise. He grinned through the sting, chewing.


Finally, as the last bowls were cleared and the clan lowered their chopsticks, she leaned close to his ear and hissed her verdict.


Great-Grandmother (whispering): “You are uglier than my departed husband — and he was the ugliest man in Japan. An achievement, in a land of effeminate, brutal monsters.”


She sat back, satisfied, cane resting across her knees.


WS swallowed the last bite, jaw tightening, but his lips curved into that dangerous, magnetic smile. He did not reply — and in his silence, the insult twisted into something else entirely: an acknowledgment. A brand. A mark of her approval, dressed as disdain.


And everyone in that long hall knew — the matriarch had chosen him.


When the clan rose to return to the sanctuary, engines rumbled outside. The mafia boss from the night before appeared, his men in formation behind him. No swagger this time, no cheap jokes. He was here for one purpose — protection.


The White Tiger’s family was hated, and every rival in the prefecture would have loved to see them humiliated on this day. But as long as the boss and his soldiers walked beside them, no one dared. His presence wrapped the clan in a shield sharper than steel.


WS carried the prune on his back, climbing the steps with her cane tapping against his shoulder like a drumbeat. She launched into her story — how she met the White Tiger, how she learned to love him despite everything — and every cousin, aunt, and uncle had no choice but to listen.


The mafia boss kept his eyes forward, his expression carved from stone. Only once did it break — when Nojiko passed near. Then the mask slipped, just enough: a softened glance, a small bow, respect wrapped around hope. He had come to guard the clan, yes. But beneath that duty, he carried a quieter wish — that someday, in honoring her family, he might earn her heart.


As WS carried her up the shrine steps, the old prune began her tale in that strange whispered American with the thickest Korean accent, sharp enough that everyone assumed it was just Korean.


“Toward the end of the war,” she said, her words slow but cutting, “the Russians came like wolves, scattering those cowardly Japanese to the wind. They were ready to surrender to the white monkeys — the Americans. Hah. The Russians were white monkeys too.”


Her cane tapped against WS’s shoulder as she leaned closer. “But when the garrison abandoned my village, a group of seven warriors remained. At their head — your great-grandfather. Ordered to retreat, yet he refused. Stubborn. An idiot, yes. But not a coward. Not like the bum hole worshipers.”


WS frowned. “The what?”


The old prune jabbed her cane toward the rising sun flag hung at the shrine. “Them.”


WS went silent. Around them, the clan saw only the old matriarch muttering in Korean to the blonde giant, thinking nothing of it. But every word between them was sharp as a blade, carving the past into him as he carried her forward.


“Your great-grandfather fought like a tiger,” the prune hissed, her voice rasping in that fake-Korean, English-accented whisper. “I heard his men call him that. In the East, polite society keeps men unarmed — but a tiger can wipe out entire villages before anyone stops it.”


She gave a contemptuous snort. “By then I had already learned Japanese. Such a stupid language. If all those brutish animals could speak it, then someone wiser, higher, better like me? Of course I mastered it quickly. So why would I ever use it? I spit on it.”


WS almost smirked. That tracked.


She went on, her voice sharpening as if she were back in that village. “That demon Japanese set a field of death. Grenades hidden where the Russians would dive for cover. Spike pits in the places they’d crawl. And when his bullets ran out, he and his men rose, screaming ‘banzai.’ But not like the usual idiots who charge straight into machine guns.”


Her cane jabbed his ribs. “No. They ran zigzag, like devils. They butchered the Russian beasts. A massacre. He was shot—” she leaned close, whispering it right into WS’s ear, “—fourteen times. Fourteen! Still he fought. Still he killed.”


Her eyes gleamed. “When dawn came, the Russians were all dead. His men were all dead. And he was lying there, riddled with holes, like a corpse. I took pity on him.” She spat the word like poison. “The last pity I ever showed a Japanese. Three days I nursed him. Three days. And the bastard put a bastard in my belly.”


Her weight pressed heavier on WS’s back. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her words twisted in his mind. A woman takes pity, takes care of a wounded man — and he uses her, leaves her with a burden.


And just for a heartbeat, WS’s thoughts flickered to Minnesota. To the fat Swedish girl. To how she had taken care of him. To what he had left her with.


The old woman kept eating her story with relish, but WS could no longer tell whether she was talking about the past — or quietly damning him in the present.


The old woman’s voice didn’t soften. “For nearly five months, I kept him hidden. By day, I carried him, fed him, shielded him. By night, he vanished. Shadow steps, they called them. And each dawn he returned—bloodied, bruised, a new wound for every cursed corner of that sector. That land,” she spat the word like it burned her tongue, “cursed. Even the Russians said so.”


She leaned on her cane, eyes narrowing. “When peace was signed, I hid him under a bale of hay and drove him south. Last ship out of Korea back to that shithole island of Japan. Filled with cowards, surrenderers, returned to their miserable rock. Even the gods hate it.” She gestured at the sky, like she could shove it down on them. “All those earthquakes, tsunamis, typhoons—they’re just the world trying to scratch a flea off its back. Japan. That’s all it is. A flea.”


WS swallowed hard, imagining the man beneath the hay, battered, and the old woman guiding him through the chaos of surrender and cowardice. The cruelty of history wrapped around him, and a faint chill ran down his spine.


“When I shoved him onto the ship, trying to rid myself of that annoying monster—who could kill a man like a man swats a fly—he grabbed me. Not that I put up much of a fight. I’d spent five months warming his bed by day, praying he’d survive the night. So when he took my hand and pulled me with him… what’s a young girl supposed to do?”


She snapped her fingers, eyes blazing. “The other animals on the ship whispered, ‘Comfort girl,’ but your great-grandfather, selfish beast that he was, looked at them with those eyes—eyes that could freeze a man on the spot. They left me be. Three worst days of my life. Never stepped foot on a boat again. Crude things, only idiots like the Japanese could enjoy them.”


She leaned closer, voice dropping. “As soon as we arrived in Japan, the Americans were there, setting their sights on breaking the country. All the war heroes were scrutinized, and few were more honored than your great-grandfather. Before the war, he’d killed thousands of Chinese, but he once admitted—they were good soldiers. Their leadership, their equipment… who sends a man to war with a spear against tanks and machine guns? He pulled me into the shrine and made me his official wife. To shame me.”


She waved a hand dismissively. “By then, my belly was showing. He’d lost his shine, but the Americans left us be. His commander reported him as a deserter for not retreating—last blemish on his record. A warrior, yes, but no symbol. And then… I put up with him for seventy—or eighty-two—years. You stop counting after two decades anyway.”


As they neared the temple, she waved a hand. “I will not bore you with such stories anymore. After the war, we returned to his father’s house… returned to the family business.”


“Gardeners?” WS froze. “You mean I come from a family of gardeners? I assumed samurais…”


She smirked. “Gardeners, yes. But not mere gardeners. Suppliers for Japanese traditional medicine… a sort of… drug suppliers.”


WS couldn’t help a small smirk of his own. So he and the angels were partly in the same line of business.


Her eyes studied him sharply. “Only a fool would believe a demon like you could be an angel. You are… different. Yet the killing intent I saw in you last night did not lie. You have the same anger in your blood… the same restlessness… the same protective instinct.”


Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the affection beneath the harsh words. Even after all those years, she had loved her husband’s strength, his detachment, and the ruthless fire he carried.


As the day waned and the final rites drew to a close, each branch of the family made their offerings, lifting their traditional air balloons to guide the dead on his next journey. Eleven balloons rose into the sky… and WS added one more of his own, sending it up not merely as a member of the family, but in his own name.


He had never met the White Tiger, his great-grandfather, but the man demanded respect. Defying orders to protect civilians, labeled a deserter by authorities, called a beast by even his own wife… he had acted according to a code of honor WS understood instinctively.


He knew it in his bones: the choices his grandfather had made, the courage it took to face the Red Army—a force so feared that even the Americans had left Eastern Europe to suffer under communism for fifty years. And yet, here he was, rising above judgment, his legacy lifted silently on a balloon into the sky.


As most members of the clan departed for their homes or the cities they had established themselves in, only a few remained. When they returned to the house, they found it barred by a mob. At the front was the eldest child of WS’s great-grandmother, demanding recognition as head of the family. He had come to take over—now.


Her own mother, losing patience for the first time, spoke in Japanese: he was a disgrace, trying to steal her role. But the men did not relent. He had brought children, grandchildren, and a few loyal friends. The mobsters who had protected the family over the past days couldn’t hope to match numbers alone.


WS stepped forward. Calm. Cold. His words simple: his numbers were not hard to deal with. He stared the man down.


Then another stepped up—a young man WS had met on the train, the son of his grandmother’s youngest child. He moved to stand beside WS, presenting his botanics degree as proof that he was the most qualified to run the family business on behalf of their grandmother.


The man stepped back, visibly afraid of WS. That was when his own mother spoke, her voice like steel: he was no longer her child. Disowned for his greed, expelled from the family. He had no right to stand among them. She demanded he pick a new family name—or she would conjure the spirits and see him and his entire brood shrivel into decay. Shocked, the man ran.


WS’s grandmother shook her head, explaining he had always been a troublemaker. None of his children showed any talent beyond crude mischief. He had hoped to inherit the family business to pay off gambling debts, and the so-called friends he’d brought were likely just moneylenders.


Nojiko grabbed her phone. “I’m going to get answers—why the Yamagumi men left after the ceremonies instead of escorting us back like they always have.”


A few hours later she returned. “They were tricked into a turf war over the docks by a rival gang. Probably to allow your older uncle to take over.”


“How did you get that from the gang leader?” Nami asked.


Nojiko’s lips curled in mischief. “A woman’s weapons against a man in love are unmatched… although I’ll probably need to stay away another 25 years.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she asked Nami if she had any day-after pills.


WS groaned, exasperated. Sex had never been taboo in the household, but hearing them debate it still made him uneasy. It reminded him: Nami had never dated and was probably still a virgin… or if she wasn’t, she hadn’t bothered to tell him. Not that it mattered—he loved his sister, no questions asked.


Nojiko leaned close, her eyes glinting with mischief. “The ones who remember the old grudges… they’ll fear the return of the new White Tiger. But the younger generation? They don’t care anymore.” She smirked. “Two girls from the village married outsiders, one boy even has a Filipino Christian wife… times are changing, even here, in redneck Japan.”


She paused, brushing a strand of hair from his face as if about to kiss him. WS pulled back slightly. “Wait… did you brush your teeth?”


Her grin widened, sharp and teasing. “A mother knows how to punish her son—but I don’t kiss you with a dirty mouth. You’d get away faster.” With that, she stepped away to brush before returning, this time pressing a clean, deliberate kiss to his cheek.


As WS and Nami got ready for bed in the same room, Nojiko called out from the hallway, “The house has enough rooms now. You can each take your own.”


WS opened the door to his room, and before he could step inside, Nami leapt onto his back with a grin. “If I get to pick, I’m taking yours!”


He laughed, struggling under her weight. “Good night, Mom,” he called over his shoulder.


Nojiko, smiling softly at the scene, waved and replied, “Good night, both of you.”

 

[Warscared]

Nami tilted her head, frowning. “How have you been managing, money-wise?”


WS shrugged, a faint smirk on his lips. “Harder now that I don’t get the club’s cut.”


Nami blinked. “Club… cut?”


He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Officially, I’m an intern at Petrov Pharmaceuticals—$65,000 a year. And a janitor’s assistant at Wallace Refineries in Texas—$35,000 a year. That’s my club cut.”


Her eyes widened. “You’re sixteen… and you’ve never even been to Texas. That’s… clear fraud.”


WS raised an eyebrow. “Fraud, how? At least I pay taxes on that money.”


Nami gawked. “And that’s why you left?”


He nodded slowly. “Partly. Philosophical disagreement with Ray. At the time, I thought I was right. Later… well, I realized he was, but pride doesn’t just disappear.”


Nami frowned, tilting her head. “Wait… you said you don’t get the club’s cut anymore. What exactly does that mean?”


WS shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “Officially? I was listed as an intern at Petrov Pharmaceuticals—sixty-five thousand a year. Also a janitor’s assistant at Wallace Refineries in Texas—thirty-five thousand. That was my cut from the club.”


Nami’s eyes widened. “You’re… sixteen. And you’ve never even been to Texas. Isn’t that… fraud?”


“Not really,” WS said, leaning back. “The club routes payments this way for all the elite chapters. National contracts, mother chapters, specialized groups like Bernard’s Grave Keeper Chapter—they pay individuals directly. Keeps the clubs clean. If a member gets arrested, or the mother chapter orders a recall, the money stops automatically.”


“Why?” Nami asked, still confused.


WS shrugged again. “Legal shields. Even with the Riders’ power, authorities could never call the Angels—or any of the national clubs—a gang or organized crime outfit. The club spends fortunes making sure it stays that way. No money touches the books, no trace… it’s all protection. Keeps the government off their backs.”


Nami blinked. “So… you were basically on-call, getting paid quietly, and now it’s all gone?”


“Exactly,” WS said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “I got suspended. Club doesn’t pay. I still owe taxes on the money I did get, at least… but yeah, no more automatic income.”


Nami shook her head, still processing. “That’s… insane.”


“Welcome to the club,” WS muttered.


“You should pick something safer!” she pressed.


“I do,” he admitted. “I’ve got an online gig.”


Nami’s curiosity flared. “What kind of gig?”


WS exhaled and warned, “Don’t judge me… but I discovered I have a… natural talent to… excite women over the phone. I put an ad on a service page, and—well… every three days, give or take, I get a request from some women wanting to live a fantasy over the phone. Average talk time? Four minutes. Pay? Three hundred dollars a session.”


Nami blinked. “Wait… that’s… around a hundred a day… you’re… a sex worker?”


WS smirked faintly. “Call it what you want. Pays for the small things.”


WS leaned back, doing the mental math. If I’d charged Bella… twelve thousand already. Not that she couldn’t afford it—two weeks ago she bought Vidal a watch worth thirty-five thousand.


Nami’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What you’re doing… it’s wrong!”


WS shrugged. “Wrong? I’m just a catalyst. Women choose to liberate themselves—I’m not forcing anyone.”


Nami’s eyes narrowed. “Then… if it’s not wrong, I could also do it.”


WS felt a wave of disgust. He grabbed her wrist, hard enough to make her stop. “No. We’re not the same.”


Nami smiled. “Now you know how I feel when you say stuff like that.”


WS admitted, “While riding down south, I also worked a few strip joints. Women paid about two thousand a gig when I was new and still learning an act.”


Nami’s eyes widened. “Did you… go further?”


He smirked, recalling the chaos. “Ran three auctions already. One was a bachelorette party—fifteen grand to sleep with the fat, ugly bride-to-be. Another was a businesswoman bidding against a feminist lawyer—sixty thousand. Fuck, women get too competitive when they want something.”


“And the first one?” Nami asked.


“Barely five hundred. Guess I wasn’t that good at shaking my booty,” he laughed, thinking of the shady clubhouse and that cute aspiring country singer over in Georgia.


Nami’s face twisted. “I’m disgusted. How can you sell yourself… do stuff like that?”


WS shrugged. “It’s not work if I’m having fun. Besides, what other job pays that well and lets me bang a chick at the end of the night? Pool boy or pizza delivery guy? Hourly rates suck.”


Nami raised an eyebrow. “Is that a porn joke?”


WS grinned. “Yeah… not my best. But hey, my stock portfolio keeps growing.”


Nami hugged WS tightly. “I’d rather have you than the money.”


“In a perfect world,” WS said softly, “so would I. Nojiko is still paying off her student debt and won’t let me help, and as for you… you’re still studying.”


Nami tilted her head. “Is that also why you didn’t go to college when you finished high school?”


“No,” WS replied. “I needed to grow, to experience freedom… Besides, I’d already been granted a full scholarship by the Revera Foundation, and another for living expenses from the Zanes Foundation. They really want talented people.”


“Then why did you refuse the same offers?” he asked.


Nami shivered. “I didn’t want to be tied to the Zanes. William Zane… he gave me the creeps, the way he looked at me.”


WS’s eyes darkened. “Don’t ever let yourself be bullied into something you’re not comfortable with. No man is more deadly than your little brother, and if someone ever touches you against your will… I will set the world on fire. And I’ll have the Angels riding behind me to avenge you if something like that happens.”


WS: “So, sister… remember this. Any man who tries to dishonor you should remember who your brother is. Not even the Zanes would risk bad blood with us. So tell me—why don’t you have a boyfriend yet? You’re fairly attractive. I mean, for a soulless redhead.”


Nami: (punches his shoulder hard) “Jerk.”


WS: “What? I’m just saying. You could’ve had your pick if you wanted.”


Nami: “I never had time. Two years ago I was still running back from school to take care of you, making sure you did your lessons. Remember six years ago, when social services almost took you away because you didn’t show up for school? I thought we were finished. I was terrified. When you aced the exams, I cried with relief—but that fear never really went away. Every time I worried about neglect, about the state coming for you again.”


WS: (grins, leaning back) “So basically, I’m the reason you’re still single. World’s greatest cockblock.”


Nami: (rolls her eyes but smiles faintly) “Three years ago I finally got into college. And I couldn’t screw it up, not with Nojiko’s life story hanging over me like a warning sign. She’s drowning in debt, working her ass off just to keep us afloat. I couldn’t risk ending up the same way. Graduate. Find a decent job. Pay off my debts. That’s my life plan. What time does a modern, smart girl like me have for relationships?”


WS: (snorts, mock serious) “So no boyfriend because of me, Nojiko, and capitalism. Sounds about right.”


Nami: (smirks, shaking her head) “Exactly. You and your smart mouth included.”


WS: (leans in, voice dropping, eyes hard now) “Then hear me on this. If some man ever tries to touch you against your will? You tell him one word—my name. Tell him you’re Warscared’s sister. That’s all it’ll take. No man is more deadly than your little brother. And if he doesn’t listen… I will set the world on fire. And the Angels will ride behind me to finish what I start.”


Nami: (goes quiet, searching his face, the joking stripped away; then she just hugs him tightly)


The burner vibrated in WS’s pocket. He pulled it out, thumbed it open.


WS: “Hola, Salvador, mi hermano. ¿Está tudo bien?”


Salvador’s voice came back steady, carrying the usual background noise of traffic and laughter.


Salvador: “Sí, Ángel. Tu compañero Ezekiel estuvo aquí buscando negocios nuevos. Pero cuando le dijimos que este es tu territorio, se fue.”


WS’s jaw tightened. Zeke. So they had gotten him out. Not cheap—probably a million, give or take. And that kind of cash wouldn’t come from whole chapters; those had their own mouths to feed, their own men rotting behind bars. No, it had to be individual brothers—men who’d ridden with Zeke, owed him, respected him enough to empty their personal stashes. That meant loyalty still carried weight.


WS: “¿Es todo?”


Salvador: “No. El mecánico Greg usó la mesma razón. Dijo que eres uno de nuestros negocios ahora. Los coches que sacamos van a Greg. Eres una nueva forma de hacer plata para el grupo. A partir de este mes, entre cinco y diez mil dólares caerán en tu cuenta, fijo. Oficialmente eres dueño de la mitad de la oficina mecánica. Y si mueves algunos coches o bikes, te pagarán bien también.”


WS let out a slow breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. He didn’t have to lift a wrench, didn’t have to chase a dime. Just being Warscared was enough now. His patch might not be full yet, but his line was respected—the turf he’d marked off was recognized. That alone was currency.


WS: “Bien. Gracias por la información, hermano.”


He hung up, slid the phone into his cut.


Nami’s eyes were fixed on him, sharp and suspicious. Her Spanish wasn’t perfect, but she’d caught enough.


Nami: “…Tell me what that was.”


WS leaned back, arms folding across his chest.


WS: “It means no one steps on my ground without paying respect. The garage down the street? Half mine now, on paper. Every month, five… maybe ten grand just shows up in my account. Not because I wrench. Because my name carries weight. Because the borders I set are respected.”


Her lips parted, disbelief flickering across her face.


Nami: “So you’re just… making money for existing?”


He smirked, eyes cutting toward her.


WS: “That’s what respect buys you, sis. Turf that no one dares to cross. And when that happens, money starts finding you—whether you ask for it or not.”


Nami’s arms folded across her chest, her brow furrowed like she was scolding him in the middle of math class.


Nami: “It’s all a castle of cards, Warscared. The moment your façade cracks, you risk losing everything.”


WS didn’t flinch. He almost smiled at the accuracy.


WS: “Yeah. That’s the game. Look at Zeke, look at Amos. Both of them were kings one minute, scrambling for scraps the next. Most of their money didn’t come from the club. It came from gangs, crews, other outfits… paying them personally. Not the patch. The man.”


He tapped a cigarette against his boot, lit it, smoke curling in the cab.


WS: “When Zeke got locked up, those income streams dried overnight. Guys aren’t gonna keep paying a ghost. So now he’s out, he’s got to rebuild. Same with Amos. That’s why they’re sniffing around new ventures.”


Nami tilted her head. “And what about you?”


WS: “Same rules apply. Take the street races. Jeremiah pulls cash from those, but he does it clean. Now, if he ever pushed it too far—if he squeezed more than the others thought fair? Boom. Meeting gets called. He’d have to give up slices of his businesses, maybe all of it.”


His tone hardened, eyes narrowing with the weight of lived truth.


WS: “That’s how it works. Everyone gets paid because we’re us—because as a group, we’re lethal. Elite. Enforcers with reputations that scare gangs into opening their wallets. But if one man acts like he’s bigger than his brother, like his cut’s more important than the club? That’s abuse. And it gets corrected. Hard.”


Nami’s lips tightened, still unconvinced.


Nami: “So even among best friends, even among brothers…”


WS: “…Jealousy eats at the table. Always. That’s why the safety valves exist. To bleed off that pressure before it explodes.”



Nami’s phone buzzed, and she answered almost without thinking.


Nami: “I’m here with my brother.”


On the other end, Sasha’s voice was unexpectedly warm.


Sasha: “I saw Vidal today… Oh—you mean that one?”


Warscared looked over, confused, until the sound clicked. That voice. He hadn’t heard her without the usual ice in so long—it felt strange, almost disarming.


Nami: “Yes, that one. And no stupid jokes about his pipi.”


Sasha chuckled faintly, then lowered her voice.


Sasha: “Move somewhere private for this.”


Warscared stood up on his own, slid out to the garden, and lit a cigarette.


Nami (calling after): “He left by himself.”


Sasha sighed in relief.


Sasha: “I couldn’t call yesterday. The board flagged me—there was a spike in searches for my name, coming out of Japan. They made me sit through a full review for security risks. Have you spoken about me over there?”


Nami: “No. But… someone else here might have.” She glanced toward the window, where Warscared sat puffing in silence.


Outside, WS leaned back, frowning at the stars.


WS (to himself): “A spike in searches? Over her? The hell… I only told the boys on the train I caught Sasha’s attention. Didn’t think that was a big deal. These Petrovs, man… they’re so damn touchy about their image it’s like they think the internet’s out to get them.”


He shrugged, exhaled another drag, not really grasping how for Sasha’s world, a crack in the armor of her name was a legitimate security threat.


Nami held the phone tighter, grinning as Sasha’s voice drifted warmly through.


Sasha: “Oh—and Robin finally got those shoes she’s been crying about for months. And Bella… her smile’s back. Whatever was eating her seems gone.”


Nami: “About time. She’s unbearable when she’s sulking.”


Sasha: “You haven’t heard the real scandal, though. Ayuah and Jeff? They nearly got themselves banned from a high-class restaurant. Ayuah tried to jerk him off under the table.”


Nami blinked, then laughed out loud.


Sasha (snickering): “And instead of playing along, Jeff just froze, shouting how ‘unseemly’ it was in public. The staff almost had to intervene. Honestly, these Zanes have no shame whatsoever.”


She hesitated, voice dropping.


Sasha: “And the worst part? William’s pissed at Jeff—not because of what his daughter did, but because he didn’t go with it. He went on about gay sons-in-law, heirs, control… You know him. For that man, it’s all sex and power, power and sex. Does he even see a difference?”


Nami pressed her hand to her mouth, giggling at the image. A massive, hulking Jeff—frozen stiff while Ayuah, half a foot shorter and practically a feather compared to him, went full deviant under the white tablecloth.


Her laughter spilled into the garden window, where Warscared smoked in silence.


But as the sound faded, her thoughts turned. Bella’s smile returning. Ayuah’s recklessness. William’s obsessions. Sasha’s tight-lipped family boards. And then—her own brother’s careless brag earlier. Four minutes of work. Three hundred bucks richer.


She blinked, her mind rewinding through memories. Bella, darting off to the restroom, returning five minutes later flushed, eyes glazed like she’d just ridden out a wave of bliss. Again and again.


Her laughter thinned, replaced by an uneasy knot.


Nami (to herself): “Wait… is there a connection? Someone must’ve shown him he had a talent for this… and Bella… Bella, always five minutes gone, coming back like that. My brother—what the hell have you been doing?”


Nami leaned against the doorframe, lowering her voice while Sasha listened.


Nami: “You know what happened the other day? He barged into the shrine. Two guys had been running their mouths—he nearly killed them both with his bare hands. I’d never seen him like that. His eyes were just… gone. Pure rage.”


On the other end, Sasha went quiet.


Nami: “And he shouted in Japanese—‘I dare you to talk about my sister one more time.’ In perfect Japanese, Sasha. He’s never shown any interest in the language before, not a word. It chilled me.”


She rubbed her arm, recalling the breakfast after, still shaken.


Nami: “And then he sat there at breakfast like nothing happened. Joking, even. Giving great-grandmother a piggyback ride up to the shrine, laughing like a boy. Or that stunt with the hot-air balloon. Everyone else follows protocol, bows, whispers—he just launched his own balloon like he was declaring some bond with the ancestors. And the strange part? No one stopped him.”


Sasha exhaled slowly.


Nami: “It’s like people saw something in him. They said our great-grandfather was a mean motherfucker—commanding, dangerous, unbending. When Warscared stormed into that shrine, for a moment, they looked at him like they were seeing that same man again. Scared of him. Respecting him. Both at once.”


Her voice softened, trembling just slightly.


Nami: “He didn’t even hear us. He was blinded by rage until Mom cut through. She had to use his real name. Eyckardt. That’s the only thing that pulled him back.”

 

[Warscared]

Sasha: “I still… can’t imagine it. Even when he fought off my bodyguards, it was like he was putting on a show for me. Trying to make me laugh. Or at least… react. And that racetrack… I think it was him, but he moved in the shadows. Coming out into the light like that… it must be… nice. Having someone who loves you that much, Nami.”


Nami stiffened, then smiled faintly.


Nami: “Yeah… it’s strange, but yes. Someone who’ll go that far for you.”


Sasha’s mind drifted to the strange call she’d received at 4 a.m.—the voice, the tone, the message. A flicker of understanding crossed her face.


Sasha: “Nami… you didn’t give my private number to someone, did you?”


Nami’s cheeks flushed slightly.


Nami: “Yes… I’m sorry. But he… he insisted. I was afraid he’d do something stupid. Back then, on the phone… he sounded so… fragile.”


Sasha’s eyes narrowed as understanding clicked.


Sasha: “…Wait. The call… the one telling me I’m perfect as I am… That was him, wasn’t it?”


Nami nodded softly.


Nami: “Yes. Warscared.”


Sasha blinked, stunned. The pieces fit together—the midnight call, the quiet devotion behind the chaos, the subtle risks he had taken. All of it had been him.


Outside, WS slipped into the garden, the evening air brushing past him. He pulled on his headphones, letting A War in Silence by Phoenix Valentine fill his ears. Each note mirrored the tension coiled inside him—calm on the surface, but a storm beneath.


He thought about the ramifications of that single act—trusting Nami to give out Sasha’s number, exposing a fragile part of himself he usually kept buried. In his world, even a hint of weakness could be exploited, could unravel carefully built facades.


Meanwhile, Sasha, still on the call with Nami, processed what she had just realized. She had always seen WS as fearless, untouchable, almost untouchably sharp. Now she knew he had this… human side, capable of care so raw it defied his usual armor.


Her icy tone softened in thought. “Does this make him weak?” No—if anything, it made him more complex, more real. Someone who could wield power so effortlessly yet still risk himself for another’s safety wasn’t weak—he was dangerous, but in a way that inspired awe, not pity.



Sasha ended the call with a soft, “Good night, Nami. I’ll try and call you tomorrow,” but her thoughts immediately drifted back to what Nami had just told her. Her pulse quickened as she replayed it: WS—that WS, the boy who never asked for anything, who always moved through the world like a storm without a single hesitation—had asked Nami for her number.


Weakness. Vulnerability. A crack in the armor that only someone like Nami could have witnessed—and yet it had existed. He had never needed to ask, never wanted to rely on anyone… and yet here he had been, taking a step he almost never took, trusting Nami to bridge the gap between him and Sasha.


Sasha curled under the blankets, mind alight with the memory of him: his reckless grin, the magnetic pull of his eyes, and now this rare, human fragment of uncertainty. Her hands moved over the sheets without thought, tracing the path her imagination dictated, a shiver running through her as she pictured the strong jaw softened by that moment of fragility, his voice—the one Nami had described—so tender it almost broke through her defenses.


The boy who never asked, who never admitted need, had done exactly that. And somehow, that rare glimpse of weakness made him far more irresistible than she could have imagined.

 

[Warscared]

The next morning, Warscared fired up the bike and Nami climbed on, clinging to him. The cold wind whipped across her face as they cut through the northern Japanese countryside.


WS: “Why aren’t you having fun? In the movies, people always look like they’re having the time of their lives in scenes like this!”


Nami’s teeth clattered as she yelled over the roar of the engine.


Nami: “Maybe because in those movies, they’re riding through France or Italy—hot places! Not freezing-ass northern Japan!”


WS: “Weakling.”


She punched him on the shoulder, harder than she intended. The bike swerved, making her yelp and squeeze him tighter.


Nami: “I swear I’m never getting on a bike again! Ever! And all bikers are assholes!”


Warscared raised his voice dramatically as if proclaiming it to the world.


WS: “My job here is done! I taught my sister that assholes are not worth dating!”


By the time they reached the docks, Nami was still fuming. They ducked into a little tea house for warmth.


WS: “Coffee, please.”


The elderly woman behind the counter blinked at him, confused.


Lady: “Coffee? No. Tea.”


WS: “No coffee? Sweet kind lady, then what shall I have? Tea? Or you, if you’re available. But if I have a choice—” He gave her a slow grin. “The pretty lady is my pick.”


The woman blushed faintly, stammering.


Lady: “I… I’m engaged.”


Nami: “Bang. Shot down.”


WS: “Oh, but don’t worry. I won’t be staying in Japan. You can remain engaged after I leave. Besides—jealousy isn’t one of my flaws.”


The woman’s face twisted between discomfort and… was that a flicker of disappointment? Warscared leaned back, chuckling, and waved it off.


WS: “Kidding. Just trying to shock my sister. Don’t take it to heart.”


The tension eased, though the woman lingered at the counter longer than she needed to.


Nami muttered, glaring at him.


Nami: “I’ll get my own kettle. You can drink from yours. She’s definitely going to spit in yours.”


WS: “Not like I haven’t considered licking her all up and down.”


Nami slapped his arm hard enough to make his teacup rattle.


Nami: “Shut up. Drink your tea. Stop creating problems!”


Warscared only smirked into his cup, the steam hiding his eye


Warscared leaned back against the dock rail, sipping what was left of his tea, and turned to his sister.


WS: “So, Nami… I’ve been thinking. Running through the list of guys at your college. Trying to get you someone to date.”


Nami nearly spat her drink.


Nami: “Excuse me? What the hell—We’ve been in Japan for four days and you’re already acting like some patriarchal asshole?!”


WS: “Third day for me.” He smirked. “And no, I just want you to be happy. In 85% of cases, people who are happy have their companions to thank for it. So. I looked into two candidates: a guy named Jeff, and another called Dwayne—”


Nami froze, then narrowed her eyes.


Nami: “You mean Ayuah Zane’s boyfriend? Are you mental? That girl would burn you alive—and me with you—if she even suspected we were talking about this.”


WS: “Never met her. I’m sure I could seduce her.”


Nami: “No. Absolutely not. She finally has a group of girlfriends and I’m not torching that because of your… nonsense. Besides—Jeff’s black. And according to Ayuah…” she made a vague, exasperated gesture, “…he’s big. Like… massive big. And in case you forgot, I’m still a virgin.”


Warscared arched an eyebrow.


WS: “So what, you won’t survive a dick beating?”


Nami: “It wouldn’t be a beating, it would be me being clubbed to death!”


He chuckled into his cup, then tilted his head.


WS: “Alright then, what about the other guy?”


Nami: “You mean Sasha’s brother.” She paused, something dawning on her. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “…Wait a second. Are you actually trying to find me a boyfriend—or just manufacturing an excuse to invite Sasha along so you can watch our dumb siblings stumble through their dates while you get your own in with her?”


The way Warscared’s jaw tensed was all the answer she needed. He looked too shocked.


Nami: “…Got you.”


WS: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


Nami: “Yeah, you do. And you even gave me two options, didn’t you? Why Jeff, then? Ahh… I see it. The illusion of choice.”


She jabbed her finger at him, smirking now.


Nami: “People feel less defensive, more agreeable, more… susceptible, if they think they have a choice. Crowd behavior and manipulation 101. That’s why you dangled Jeff first—to soften me up for Sasha’s brother.”


Warscared didn’t say a word. Just smiled thinly into his tea, like a magician caught mid-trick.


Warscared leaned on the dock rail again, looking at his sister.


WS: “No, but seriously, Nami—why have you never dated before? I just… I want you to be happy.”


Before she could answer, a shadow darted in front of them. A Japanese kid, at least a foot shorter than Nami—and almost a foot and a half shorter than Warscared—bowed deeply. In both hands he presented a small wrapped chocolate box.


Kid: “For the beautiful red goddess. I just saw you, and I could not contain myself. At the risk of being made a fool, and in the danger of having to commit suicide from shame, I decided to take this humble step to tell you… you are beautiful!”


Nami’s cheeks flushed crimson.


Before she could react, WHACK!—Warscared smacked the boy lightly on the crown of the head with his fist.


WS: “HEY, Yoshi! I didn’t teach you how to get girls’ attention just so you could hit on my sister!”


The boy—Yoshi—blinked in shock.


Yoshi: “I–I am sorry, Sensei! I was so entranced by the Red Goddess, I failed to notice it was your sister.”


Nami turned slowly, glaring at her brother.


Nami: “…You’re already creating a cult, aren’t you?”


WS: “Not a cult. Just some dudes I made friends with on the train over. Like our cousin—he’s handling the family’s garden now.”


Nami: “…The drug garden?”


Warscared ignored her, flicking his chin toward Yoshi.


WS: “And Yoshi, don’t push it. She’s way out of your league. My sister’s the exception.”


Yoshi straightened, shaking his head.


Yoshi: “No, Sensei. You taught us yourself—girls always think they are out of reach, until they don’t. There are no exceptions.”


WS: “My sister is the exception. Beat it before I beat you up.”


Yoshi looked straight at Nami, voice trembling but determined.


Yoshi: “If she says yes, I will gladly take a beating. She is worth it.”


Nami waved her hands frantically, face red.


Nami: “No, no—don’t! It’s not worth it. He would actually hurt you!”


Yoshi bowed deeply again, clutching the chocolate box to his chest.


Yoshi: “Then I will wait for another chance. But Sensei… you are a hypocrite! You said no girl is an exception!”


He stormed off in a huff, muttering about injustice.


Nami pinched the bridge of her nose.


Nami: “…You are building a cult.”


Warscared grinned, completely unbothered.


WS: “A useful one.”


Warscared leaned back, smirking.


WS: “So, back to the question—why’ve you never had any boyfriends? ’Cause hey, if you’re into girls, I can introduce you to a lot. And I mean a lot. Hell, I’ll even share some of my scraps—we can double-team some confused chick or a lesbian in doubt. Like a true dynamic duo!”


Nami stopped dead, staring at him like he’d just farted in a church.


Nami: “Stop being revolting. I raised you better than that!”


Warscared smirked wider.


WS: “Yes, you did. And then I evolved.”


The joke fell flat. Nami’s face shifted—something heavy, vulnerable.


Nami: “…I don’t know how, okay? Most people learn from their parents. Relationships are mirrors—kids see how their parents act, how they love, how they fight, and they copy that. They build their own version from it. But… we didn’t have that. I’m incomplete, Eyckardt. I don’t even know how to start. I feel broken.”


Her voice cracked. She turned her face away, shoulders shaking.


Warscared froze for half a beat, then stepped in, wrapping her in his long arms. His voice lost all its usual bite.


WS: “Why would you be sad about this? You think it’s a curse?”


He squeezed tighter, cheek pressed against her hair.


WS: “I call it a blessing. It means you’re free from their constraints. You don’t have to repeat their mistakes. You don’t have to play by rules written for someone else. You can be yourself. That’s freedom, Nami—true freedom. Not the false options the rest of us are stuck with.”


Nami clung to him, silent tears running down her face. Warscared just held her, steady, eyes sharp on the horizon.


The delivery boy trotted over, bowing politely before handing Warscared a box.


Nami: “What’s this now?”


Warscared smirked. “The reason I dragged you out today.” He placed the box in her hands, grin widening.


Nami narrowed her eyes. “I’m being offered too many gifts today…”


WS: “Quit whining. Just open it.”


She tore the paper and froze. Inside lay a gleaming new Japanese passport, fresh and official.


Nami: “…What is this?”


Warscared leaned against the railing like it was nothing. “A safety net. I can’t have one—Mom was American when she squeezed me out. But you? You were born under the Rising Sun. So I greased the right palms, got a promise of a contract in Tokyo with a firm. If you want it, it’s there. Law support, clean office. I checked—no creeps. Well… no more creeps than normal in Japan.”


For a second, Nami’s eyes went glassy—like she didn’t know whether to laugh, hug him, or throw the thing at his head.


That’s when Warscared froze. His eyes narrowed, sharp like a blade. Two figures were walking along the dock. He moved before Nami could blink.


Silent. Ghostlike. Even the wind carried more sound than him. His long shadow cut in the right angle so it vanished into theirs, and then—


WHAM—his hand closed around one man’s neck, dragging him back like prey, while his boot lashed out, cracking the other behind the skull.


Nami: “STOP!”


Warscared froze, chest heaving. He looked down at the two men.


They scrambled upright, immediately bowing low to Nami.


Guy 1: “Forgive us, Red Goddess! For what we said at your great-grandfather’s funeral—”


Guy 2: “It was foolishness, we spoke out of turn, but your beauty—your beauty blinds—”


Warscared snarled and booted them both in the ass. “Stop making her head bigger. It’s already inflated enough!”


The two men stumbled, then bolted down the street like their lives depended on it.


Nami just stood there, clutching the passport, half-shaken, half-stunned. Her brother was back beside her, calm as if nothing had happened.


WS: “…See? Safety net.”


Nami rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You violent asshole! They were just running their mouths. It was locker room talk — nothing more!”


Warscared tilted his head, that eternal smirk tugging at his lips. “Nothing more? You really think words don’t stain? You’d be the first one crying if someone tried to use them to cage you.”


Nami: “I don’t need you fighting every random idiot on the street for me. I can defend myself. You project onto them the crap you’d do to any girl who isn’t family. That’s your problem, not mine!”


Warscared let her words hang in the air, then gave a little shrug. “Maybe. But maybe not.”


Nami: “Fighting is never the answer.”


WS: “…Until it becomes the answer.”


Nami snapped back without hesitation, voice tight. “Wars don’t decide who wins. Politics do.”


Warscared chuckled low, deep, like he’d been waiting for that line. His smirk sharpened. “Wars only decide who’s left alive to sign the peace deal.”


The silence after was brutal, broken only by the sound of waves slapping against the dock. Nami glared at him — furious, frustrated, and maybe a little afraid of just how calm he looked.


She pulled out her phone, thumbing at it furiously. “I’m not sticking around for this. You can keep your ‘peace deals.’ I’m calling an Uber.”


Warscared’s smirk didn’t budge.


Nami: “You violent asshole.”


The silence stretched, heavy after his line about wars and peace deals. Nami’s chest heaved; she was biting her lip, struggling to find the words. Finally, she turned and spat:


Nami: “Tell me something, Warscared… what’s your body count?”


He didn’t hesitate. Smirk intact, eyes cool. “Over a hundred by now.”


Her face drained of color. “You’ve killed over a hundred people?”


He barked a short laugh. “What? No, that’s the sheets score. The streets score…” He tilted his head, feigning thought. “…I stopped counting when it hit a hundred. That was, what, five months ago?”


Nami staggered a step back, her voice trembling between anger and disbelief. “You… you talk about lives like they’re nothing. Like they’re not even real.”


Warscared’s smirk twitched, never faltering but sharpened, almost cruel. “People spend too much time pretending life’s worth more than it is. I don’t. I value what matters. The rest? Just noise.”


Her eyes glossed with tears, fury and heartbreak tangling together. “You’re unbelievable. You don’t even see how sick that sounds, do you?”


She jabbed at her phone, hands shaking. “I’m done. I can’t be the reason you spiral into this shit. I won’t watch you throw yourself away in fights you don’t need.”


He said nothing, only watching as the Uber pulled up, smirk still painted on his lips like a mask.


Nami: “You violent asshole.”


She slammed the car door shut, and in the reflection of the window as it pulled away, Warscared’s smirk remained — unbroken, unshaken — the one thing about him that terrified her more than his rage.

WS returned to the café, scanning the room until his gaze settled on the girl he’d flirted with earlier. “Need help with the back room?” he asked, voice calm but carrying the weight of a storm.


She hesitated for just a heartbeat, then nodded, walking toward the closed door. “Yes… please.” The door clicked shut behind her, leaving WS in the quiet, charged air of the small space.


He let out a slow breath. Back room, he thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. A place to vent, to release… whatever needs releasing.


Even in the quiet, the tension coiled tight around him. The world outside could wait. Here, in this small room, he could let the fire burn — uncontrolled, liberating cathartic

 

[Warscared]

WS drives back to the family compound to say goodbye to Nojiko, but Nami refuses even to see him, her arms crossed and jaw tight. Undeterred, WS leans down and kisses Nojiko on the cheek.


Amber calls Nojiko mid-scene, and WS snatches the phone. “Hey Amber. Long time no see.”


“Are you… okay, Wa—Eyckardt?” Amber starts, but he interrupts.


“Yeah. And thanks for everything. You’ve been an inspiration — keep me grounded,” he says softly.


From the background, Ray’s voice booms: “Tell that bastard to get his ass back here as soon as possible!”


WS smirks. “Even Amber likes to get down and dirty with a filthy biker?”


Amber laughs, a teasing warmth in her voice. “Not a filthy biker — the king of dirty bikers. I made an exception.” She blows him a kiss over the phone.


WS kisses Nojiko’s cheek again, grabs his rental bike, and smiles. “I love you, Mom.” He revs the engine and departs, leaving Nojiko stunned.


Later, she asks Amber over the phone, incredulous: “Is it true?”


Amber chuckles. “Yes. I’ve been sleeping with Ray. If he hadn’t gone to war after high school, life would’ve been different. But he loved his freedom too much.”


Nojiko corrects her. “You just called him Eyckardt and he didn’t go berserk?”


Amber sighs. “Must have slipped my mind… it’s been months. I usually don’t use it, but today I wanted to test you. Ray even hoped it would drive him mad and bring him back.”


WS eases off his bike, letting the engine’s hum fade into the early evening air. The Misawa Angels size him up instantly—the cut on his sleeveless jacket catching the low sunlight, the nomad patch glaring like a neon warning. They haven’t seen him before, but the rules are clear: a brother shows up, a brother is respected.


One of the pilots whistles, a low, appreciative sound that carries just enough awe. “That’s a long ride even for a nomad,” he says, stepping forward. “Welcome to home away from home, brother.”


The rest of the chapter watches in silence, evaluating: the way WS moves, the way he surveys the space, the subtle way his eyes scan for danger without panic. They don’t know his name, his past, or his deeds, but the code doesn’t demand that yet. Respect is automatic. Suspicion lingers, like a thin layer of smoke over a bonfire, but they wait to see if the flame is steady.


WS smirks slightly, loosening his helmet straps. He’s aware of the eyes on him, the unspoken assessment, and he welcomes it. In this chapter, as in every chapter, actions speak louder than reputation.


WS leans back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes glinting as they follow the massive photograph of Ray on the far wall. “The bastard is aging slowly, it seems,” he says with a wry grin. “How old is this photo? Twenty years? And only two new white hairs.”


One of the Angels raises an eyebrow. “You know him?”


“Yeah,” WS replies, smirk widening. “Chief of his original chapter. Seen him in action.”


Two of the other guys whistle low, impressed. “A former mother chapter member became a nomad? Must be a hell of a story.”


WS shrugs, settling in to tell it. “Ray suspected something fishy. Looked into it, pulled together the database. Riders’ plans against the Angels were laid bare, and I came out with the countermeasures.”


One of the guys leans forward, intrigued. “So Ray did speak the truth… that the plan was done by a sixteen-year-old?”


WS smirks, nodding. “Yeah. Counterattack plan for burning compromised people? Mine. The tutorial on protecting in the future? Mine. Playbook on freeing the wrongly imprisoned, gaming the law? Mine. And the war plan? Mine too.”


The man whistles softly. “Never heard that one.”


“Yeah,” WS admits, “I got suspended for arguing with Ray over it.”


The room goes quiet for a beat, respect and disbelief mixing. A guy mutters under his breath, “Heated talks… yeah, we knew how they got… but to stand up to the national president? That’s… boy, you’re an idiot. An idiot with balls, but still stupid nonetheless.”


WS smirks, letting the comment linger. He doesn’t defend it. He doesn’t need to. They already understand the kind of man he is—reckless, daring, and utterly capable.


WS leans back, one hand resting on the handlebars of the rental bike, the other lifting a beer. “Rode along the South before coming to Japan. Jezebel’s still in Miami, sitting in a storage room. Had to rent this one—doesn’t compare, but good enough to ride.”


The Angel who first welcomed him grins. “Well, since you’re here, welcome. Tomorrow we’ve got a ride planned—you can join us.”


WS smirks, finishing his beer. “Count me in. I’ll be up for whatever you’ve got.”


The next day, the Misawa Angels line up their bikes under the morning sun. WS falls in naturally, riding among them, helmet on, cut visible, presence felt. The ride isn’t just about speed or distance—it’s a show of brotherhood, trust, and skill.


As they pass coastal roads and narrow mountain bends, one of the guys calls over, giving WS a running commentary. “This part? Best view in the prefecture. That cliff over there? Locals say it’s haunted. And the temple up ahead—only bikers know the shortcut.”


WS smirks beneath the helmet, taking it all in. “Touristic personal guided ride, huh? Not bad.”


The group laughs, and for a few hours, the tension of the previous day melts into the roar of engines, camaraderie, and the open road. WS feels at home, even in a foreign chapter—here, his reputation as a nomad matters less than his skill, respect for the ride, and willingness to join without question.

 

[Warscared]

The train swayed gently, its steady rhythm filling the silence between Nami and Nojiko. Both had switched to English, their private language when they didn’t want strangers overhearing.


Nami sat rigid, her fingers digging into her arms as she hugged herself. Her voice was tight, almost trembling.
“I don’t want to lose him, Nojiko. But I can’t agree with what he’s becoming. Every time he comes back into our lives, he feels… further away. Like he’s walking into something I can’t follow.”


Nojiko’s gaze lingered on the reflection of her son’s face in memory, not in the glass. She spoke slowly, carefully.
“And yet… he’s changing in ways I never thought he could. Did you notice? He makes friends so easily now. He even let Amber call him Eyckardt. Do you realize how rare that is? For him to allow it without fury?”


Nami’s jaw tightened.
“Or maybe it means he’s losing himself. Losing the only rules that kept him grounded.”


Nojiko turned to look directly at her daughter, eyes narrowing with quiet weight.
“Or maybe it means what the relatives saw in him was real. They never even met him when he was little, and still… all of them said the same thing. That his aura screams White Tiger—the dreaded spirit beast. The one who could wipe out whole villages by his mere presence.”


Nami shuddered, shaking her head hard.
“Don’t say that like it’s fate. That’s not him—that’s a curse. You saw what he did: he gave us fifty thousand dollars, just like that, as if it meant nothing! But you know what it cost him to get it? He told me, Nojiko. The way he makes his money—illegal blood-soaked jobs on one hand, and manipulative legal tricks on the other. Which one is worse? I don’t know. Both are poison.”


Her eyes searched Nojiko’s, pleading.
“You really think this… White Tiger aura makes it acceptable? You think terror and schemes justify everything?”


Nojiko let out a long, steady breath. She didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and almost mournful.
“Not acceptable. But maybe… inevitable. And if inevitable, then maybe even necessary. The White Tiger doesn’t choose its role, Nami.”


Nami turned back to the window, blinking hard to hold back tears, the Tokyo skyline still distant, both women knowing the conversation was far from over.


Back at the clubhouse, the air cracked with the sound of gunfire. WS stood at the range, shoulders squared, jaw tight, empty shells piling around his boots. He’d never been a marksman. Knives, tasers, bare hands, and the art of shadows—that had been his way. Silent, surgical, unseen. In his youth he’d made a science of finding the soft spots in bigger men, dropping them with precise cruelty. But now? There were no longer bigger men. He had outgrown even that excuse. Taller than Nami, broader than he had ever imagined himself, his presence alone carried weight.


That’s when the rumble of bikes rolled in, followed by the growl of a van. Five Angels—four Marines on iron horses, one in a battered transport—arrived in formation, colors sharp against the fading sky. They were the Misawa Navy boys, jarheads in every sense, a chapter unto themselves. The air shifted when they dismounted, the bond of brothers carved deep into their skin.


Hugs and backslaps erupted at the gate. Laughter, curses, the smell of fuel and sweat. WS lingered at the edge until one of the Misawa riders pulled him in with a grin and an introduction. “Nomad, huh? Then you’re family. Come on.”


The next five days blurred into rhythm and ritual. Days at the range, nights with beer and war stories. Two of the Marines were crack shots, their precision terrifying, and they took WS under their wing. What shocked them wasn’t his inexperience, but how quickly he absorbed every lesson—his uncanny knack for translating instinct into technique. He didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, didn’t blink under pressure.


Mock battles turned into small unit drills, live-fire exercises into strategy games. WS adapted fast. For once, he wasn’t slipping into the shadows alone, but moving with a team, syncing into the rhythm of brothers who had fought side by side. For him, it was new. For them, it was unsettling—this Nomad with ice-cold nerves, slotting into formation as if he’d always belonged.

That night, the bottles kept coming. Whiskey, beer, the sharp bite of cheaper spirits passed around in mismatched mugs. The Marines didn’t drink like civilians—they drank like men burning off months of tension in a single night, voices rising, laughter snapping like firecrackers. Somewhere between rounds, Jake, a broad-shouldered jarhead with a busted nose that had never healed straight, leaned across the table and broke it down for WS.


“See, our chapters? Technically, they don’t exist.” He tapped the rim of his glass, eyes glinting. “On paper, the club’s a civilian organization, so no soldier’s supposed to wear the patch. But reality? Different story. Half the elites, the real backbone of the Angels, come out of us. Out of bases like this one.”


He gestured with his beer toward the wall where Ray’s photograph hung like a holy icon. “Back before Ray, the flow was south. Boys would leave the service, get sent to Texas, build the ring around the Mother Chapter there. But Ray changed the map. Sent us to the Northeast, stacked the decks around the new Mother. Half the Northeast Angels? Not even locals. Just us—transplants. Homegrown somewhere else, patched straight in. No hazing, no bullshit. You come out of a military chapter, you’re already proven.”


Jake’s voice dipped, half pride, half warning. “Three men’s enough. That’s all it takes. If you got three Angels on a base with no patch? Boom, you got yourselves a chapter. Ramstein, Germany’s the legend. Hundred and thirty-four patched members last I heard. Half still in uniform, the other half keeping bikes in storage. When they ride? Mythical. When they party? Infamous.”


The others laughed knowingly, swapping war stories that blurred between barracks and backroads. Tales of rides that ended in orgies of booze, drugs, and women flown in to keep the warriors entertained. Fistfights that could’ve sparked diplomatic incidents. Nights of violence buried under military protection. “Any other man would rot in prison for half the shit we pulled,” Jake said with a grin, “but Uncle Sam keeps his boys safe. Doesn’t matter what flag’s flying above the base—we ride under the same one.”


The room roared, and WS drank with them, fire burning in his chest. For once, he didn’t stand apart. He was brother among brothers, and when Jake finally raised his glass to him, it was like an oath.


“Tomorrow,” Jake said, voice cutting through the noise, “me, you, and two of the boys are catching an Air Force plane back stateside. Time to ride where it really matters.”

Flight to California

Warscared sank into his seat, headphones snug over his ears, letting Rise Against – Audience Of One fill the cabin as the plane hummed steadily across the Pacific from Misawa toward California. He had traced Azrael’s route in his mind before: Texas into California, history and myth tangled into a narrative of the Riders’ defeat—but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.


Home. Ray. His hometown. Could he return without unraveling everything he’d built? And Nami…


He tightened his grip on the leather-bound Kant text resting on his lap. Nami had always been different. Nojiko could feel pride in him, even when others would see only shame. She had been tempered by the old white tiger, softened by the mild streets of her hometown; she understood strength, understood violence, and had watched him grow into it. Nami, though—no male role model, nothing to anchor her understanding of what a man could be. For her, he was no longer a child she could tower over; he was a man, and that man was dangerous.


He thought back to Ana Paula, so brief, so fragile, shutting him out the moment she glimpsed the killer within. But she had barely known him. Nami had known all of him, all her life—and what if she did the same? What if she retreated and refused to acknowledge him?


Vidal, as usual, was simple. No male anchor, only overdependence on women, all filtered through sex. Warscared thought of Vidal’s blind infatuation with Bella von Hallen. To Vidal, she was the perfect combination: strong, beautiful, willing. A woman to admire, to desire, to conquer physically. WS smirked. That was exactly why Vidal never understood people.


Bella, to Warscared, was different. She was thrill-seeking, easily manipulated, weak under the subtle pressure of his voice. She was a game, a test of control and cunning, a reflection of how little power she truly held in his hands. Where Vidal saw empowerment, WS saw opportunity. He didn’t respect her. He didn’t need her.


He remembered the first time he met Ray at fourteen. Ray had been a man who commanded respect, love, and fear simultaneously, and WS had absorbed that example without question. Malachi, Jeremiah, Obadiah—each had added fragments: pride, honor, spirit, violence as currency. But those fragments alone had shaped him into a man Nami might not recognize. A man too large, too imposing, too dangerous.


He thought back to all the psychology texts he had devoured. Nami didn’t see him as a brother. She had raised him when Nojiko couldn’t, molded him when the world hadn’t, and in doing so, had treated him like her child—perhaps an unconscious shield against her own fears of intimacy. A twenty-one-year-old girl, beautiful, still untouched by sex in a world where it was casual and recreational. It didn’t make sense to him, not logically, not morally.


He closed his eyes, letting the music carry him across the miles. Kant’s book pressed against his chest, grounding him. He tried not to imagine a world without his sister’s acknowledgment. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow it. Nojiko’s quiet pride was a beacon; Nami’s fear, a challenge he was determined to face.


Somewhere over the endless Pacific, the steady hum of the engines felt almost like a heartbeat, persistent and insistent. WS exhaled slowly. California awaited, Azrael’s trail beckoned, and the shadow of the sister who knew him best stretched ahead like a road he had yet to travel.


The next track in his Master DJ mix was Bent Ardi – A King Without a Queen, and somehow his mind drifted to Sasha. He could see her cracks, and he knew he could probably lead her into his bedroom, bend her will, make her believe it was all her idea—but it felt wrong. Perhaps it was the long shadow the Petrov name cast. Perhaps it was her fighting, naive spirit—someone brave enough to stand up against the Angels Mother Chapter. Anyone else would have been crushed, shoved into their place decisively. But her? It felt wrong to break her, to make her suffer.


She was a fragile balance of beauty, innocence, and bravery—impossible to maintain. Eventually, that innocence would fade, and she would grow into the mythic Petrov: ruthless, unstoppable, a force bulldozing anyone who stood in her way. He ran thought experiments on rival families—the Zanes crushed the Petrovs, the Riveras co-opted and seduced—but ZPR was different. The families avoided interfering with each other; each had its domain. And under the protective wing of the Angels, Sasha was untouchable.


Had he not been a beloved mascot of the Angels Mother Chapter, would he have had the courage to approach her? Perhaps not. Yet even when he first saw her at the mall, unaware of who she was, something clicked. Once he knew her name and connected the dots, his interest only grew. Dangerous? Yes. And he should keep away. But when he was at his lowest, even a blink of her in his imagination could snap him out of it. And if the spiral deepened, her voice alone could calm him, anchor him, put everything into perspective.


She was no queen to his king; to his king, she was an empress. Untouchable. Oleg Petrov, the old patriarch, had withdrawn from daily family politics, his empire untouchable under his rule. He had long since stepped back from CEO duties, leaving the conglomerate divided into separate divisions and companies, while he remained overall chairman. The mysterious death of his younger son—Sasha’s uncle, a brilliant engineer in charge of the power division—had been a hard blow. That man had planned a massive infrastructure project to reduce energy transmission losses by 20–25% and extend economic viability from 900 km to over 1500 km. But consolidating the melting pot region into a single grid was considered too dangerous by rivals and too expensive for the Petrovs. His death, suspicious and unresolved, marked the loss of one of the family’s brightest minds.


Ivan, Sasha’s father, still played politics, striving to maintain leverage inside the family. Together with Sasha’s aunt Enessa, who now also served as Sasha’s protector, they ensured neither lost power, keeping the family’s internal zero-sum games alive. Many suspected that ambitious Petrovs who showed too much potential had met untimely ends under their watch. Yet Sasha remained untouchable, her brilliant mind and her guardian Enessa shielding her from the worst of it.


All of this was a calculus in WS’s mind as the music spun: power, danger, temptation. He could dominate, manipulate, gaslight—but the wrongness lingered. Something about Sasha—her courage, her fragility, her brilliance—made him hesitate, made him realize that some victories were not his to claim. The Petrov dynasty, the Angels, the hidden currents of family politics—all of it pressed down on him. And yet, in the midst of it, just imagining her was enough to steady his hands and his mind.


The hum of the plane settles around them. Most of the soldiers are dozing off, but a few sit awake. One fiddles with a small radio, and Nightshade Anthem – “Don’t Hate Me” drifts through the cabin.


WS pulls off his headphones and leans back. “Is… that music special to you?” he asks quietly.


The soldier hesitates, glancing at the others. “Yeah… kinda.” He shrugs, then exhales. “I guess… it’s complicated.”


WS raises an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”


The soldier’s gaze drifts to the floor. “I… I voted Trump last year.” He almost whispers it. “My family hates me for it.”


WS frowns, leaning slightly forward. “Hates you? Why?”


“They’re left-wing. Very… idealistic,” the soldier says. His jaw tightens. “They called me a traitor. Said I joined the military for the wrong reasons. But… the other guy? The one they voted for? He’d have sent me—or one of my brothers in arms—straight into a senseless war. Maybe killed us all over some bullshit agenda. I couldn’t risk that. I had to think about survival. About coming home.”


WS stays quiet, letting him talk. The words hang in the air with the music.


The soldier shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “They don’t understand. They never will. And admitting it… it cost me them. My family… they disowned me. But I’d rather be alive and hated than dead and praised.”


WS nods slowly, not offering judgment. “I get it,” he says softly. “Sometimes survival doesn’t line up with ideals.”


The song plays on. Neither of them says anything else for a long moment, letting the hum of the plane and the quiet weight of confession fill the space.


WS pulls the soldier into a sudden, firm hug. “I get it,” he murmurs. “I’m at risk of losing my sister if I ever told her the truth… but there’s no way I could survive in this world without my mother or my siblings. If you can do it… you’re a far better man than me.”


The soldier shrugs, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got my military family… and my angel family over in Oakland. Poor substitutes, though. They sort of smell, and none of them can cook to save their lives. Fucking hell, most of them are out of the military and still eat army rations. Nutritious and cheap, like they say. In reality… they’re just lazy assholes. Takes two minutes to prepare and can be done in five!”


Davies pipes up, whining, “Get fucked, Robertson! I smell? At least you have a small apartment. I have to sleep in that pigsty they call a clubhouse, and when I asked if I could crash on your couch, you were like—‘No, man, sorry!’”


Robertson grins, shrugging. “Until you fix that snoring of yours? Yeah, no way. I’m not letting you sleep in the same house as me.”


Davies groans, throwing his hands up. “Fucking hell, man…”


WS leans back, letting the tension and absurdity hang in the air, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The banter, the complaints, the small, ridiculous battles—it’s messy, but it feels like home in its own strange way.


WS tilts his head, eyes on the pair. “Wait… you’re two different races. How can you be part of the same chapter?”


Davies chuckles. “California’s different, man. Most chapters were already mixed with Hispanics. When Azrael turned the war, the Blacks were allowed in. Bay Area chapters? There’re like thirteen of ‘em… but in reality, it’s all one big chapter. We just separate by race… tradition, mostly. But when the call comes, the closest Angels answer—no matter the color.”


WS frowns. “Even if you fight differently? Or have different styles?”


Davies shrugs. “Nah. Last scrap with the Riders proves it. Mother Chapter released intel on what the Riders were doing. Three Chinese guys got hurt protecting two Black bikers, while the Hispanics led the charge that made the Riders hole up in the mountains. They’re still there, scared to come out. Their only point of contact is with the Northwest. Out there? Things are harder… a lot harder.”


WS leans back, letting it sink in—the coordination, the unspoken rules, the way survival bends all the divisions he thought mattered.


WS frowns, shaking his head. “Herm… even in the Mother Chapter, all chapters maintain their independence. But in the Bay Area… you’re telling me there are thirteen chapters officially, but you all operate like one big chapter? That doesn’t make sense. Two hundred patched men working as one… it’s almost logistically impossible to operate effectively as a chapter.”


Robertson leans back, a wry grin on his face. “Might be true, even among the Ring. But when you have Mexicans breathing down your neck, La Familia creeps, and everyone pointing their guns at your throne… you start to understand that race becomes irrelevant. Fuck… there are weed farms popping up in the middle of forests all over, and we ride in to make them pay—or… make them pay. Dangerous environment. So you hang on to any thread that keeps you alive.”


WS blinks. “Over two hundred patched members?”


Davies pipes up, voice flat but proud. “Over five hundred. Prospects, tag-alongs, nomads helping out… still outnumbered like five to one by La Familia. Cartels keep sending groups to establish turf without paying rent. Half our business on the streets is constantly getting rocked by turf wars. Persuade one gang to pay, another starts a war. You have to intervene to protect the ones paying you. Good luck trying to get Calle 80 to pay… or even the fucking MS-13 monsters.”


WS stiffens, and the others notice. “Bad history with the assholes?” Robertson asks, eyes narrowing.


WS exhales. “Yeah… had to run to Japan after I fucked up in the South with an MS drug house.”


Walt’s eyes widen, and then he pats WS hard on the back. “You were the one who created that massacre in the South? Well done, man. Don’t be shy. Take out as many MS as you can over in California. Even the Calle 80 Aztecs and most gangs will thank you for it.”


WS frowns, glancing between the veterans. “Why… why are the MS-13 so hated? I mean… they have thirteen in their name, right? Doesn’t that mean they work for the Mexican Mafia?”


Walt leans back, cracking his knuckles. “Yeah, kinda. But it’s more than that. Mexicans—mainly Sinaloa—buy from Colombians, Bolivians, Peruvians… whoever’s producing. MS-13 gets paid to run cover for the shipments. Since they run defense, they’ve got the weapons… makes them overpowered for their numbers. And because they’re the ones running the drugs and not the Mexicans themselves, they get discounts on the product.”


WS blinks. “Okay… so they’re basically distributors, but… cheaper?”


Walt nods. “Exactly. So when they set up drug houses or cliques—like some sorority or shit—they sell cheaper on the streets. Entire economy gets fucked over. And the nasty assholes? They love diversifying. Even if you’ve got other sources of revenue, they butt in. No respect for anyone.”


Davies chimes in, voice grim. “We’ve got sixty-five strip joints and other night entertainment spots run by Angels. Those fuckers? Always screwing it up. Scaring off customers, harassing the girls… some even recruit girls too young, try to set up their own brothels or strip joints. Makes the Crips and La Familia furious.”


Walt shrugs. “And when they get hit? They’re hard to dislodge. Firepower keeps ‘em dangerous.”


WS leans back, absorbing it all. “So it’s not just about turf… it’s a full-on disruption machine.”


Walt smirks. “Exactly. And that’s why we don’t fuck around.”


WS sits back, jaw tight, brain ticking. But… if you don’t fuck around, you risk losses. And losses make La Familia or the Crips happy—one less Angel to deal with. The balance in the streets… it’s off. Nobody wants to act because taking losses exposes your back to black or Hispanic knives.


Robertson catches the look on WS’s face and nods. “Yeah… you got the gist of it. If not for all the chapters working together, we couldn’t handle the pressure. And it’s not just here. Southern California… the Riders started recruiting from the Hispanics. Launched an all-out war on both the Bloods and the Crips. Angels are having a hell of a time keeping control over our own turf.”


WS’s eyes widen, imagining it.


Robertson leans forward, voice low but sharp. “It’s fires all over. And fires in California? They get out of hand real fast. Innocent people get hurt. Wrong person gets hit, and authorities overreact. Cops don’t care if you shoot a Mexican, a Black, or a biker in the street. But stray bullet hits a kid? Hell is unleashed. And everyone… suffers. Money dries up. You gotta lay low. Stay down. That’s how it works.”


WS exhales slowly, the pieces falling into place in his mind. The chaos, the strategy, the fragile balance… it’s bigger than he imagined.


WS leans back, eyes narrowing, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “So… in California, I can take out as many MS-13 as I feel like it… and everyone’s just gonna cheer me on?”


Walt chuckles, shaking his head. “Well… probably not the Salvadorans. But everyone else? Yeah… they’ll probably give you a high-five.”


Davies snorts from across the aisle. “Don’t get cocky, kid. Even the cheers come with a side of bullets if you slip up.”


WS smirks, letting the thought sink in. “Noted. Cheers… and bullets. Got it.”



Robertson smirks. “Yeah right. Like you could take on an entire MS-13 drug den by yourself… that’s some Azrael mythical shit.”


Walt leans back and nods at Davies and Robertson. “Remember the storm down south over the drug house massacre?”


They all turn to WS, and for a moment, they really look at him.


Davies leans forward. “Wait… were you the one who sent the Riders on high alert?”


“All their nomads got recalled seven months ago,” Robertson adds. “Anyone who could ride was sent up north to Chicago and Minnesota.”


WS shrugs casually. “Might’ve engineered a few… complications on my stroll. Money was tight back then, but Riders tend to have nice fat coffers.”


Robertson starts running numbers in his head. "… that’s over 150 Riders dead.” He hesitates, whispers: “The House in the Hill?”


WS blushes faintly. “It wasn’t that hard… almost froze to death trying to outrun the blizzard.”


Davies shakes his head, grinning. “Man… you really do rewrite the map wherever you go.”


WS smirks. “Sometimes the map rewrites itself. I just make sure I survive the new lines.”



The low hum of Dead Flowers drifts through the cabin. Walt leans toward Davies, voice quiet but sharp over the rhythm. “You know… we could probably invite him to stick around for a while. Help the chapters in California.”


Davies arches an eyebrow. “WS? You sure?”


Walt shrugs, tapping a finger against the armrest in time with the beat. “Why not? God knows we need someone like him. Exterminator, problem-solver… whatever you want to call it. La Familia, the cartels, Crips, Bloods, Riders, MS-13… they’ve been testing the boundaries too much. Out there, the Angel name doesn’t carry the same weight it does up northeast.”


Davies frowns, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that myth’s been shattered. We still have the edge—combat experience, training, hardened in war—but guns only get you so far. Some of these elites, La Familia or Calle 80? They can match us shot for shot. Cartels might be small in numbers, but their hardware outclasses ours in some cases.”


Walt tilts his head, letting the music underscore his words. “Exactly. Angels can survive, win fights… but we can’t impose our will like in the South, Great Plains, or Northeast. It’s all about timing, strategy, knowing when to strike… and we’re stretched thin. Someone like him, WS… he doesn’t play by the normal rules. He reads the chaos, manipulates it. Against elite firepower, that’s almost as good as having Azrael-level skill on your side.”


Davies exhales, watching the rhythm of the song, calculating. “So you’re saying… he could tip the scales? Take out key players, force compliance, keep the gangs in check without even relying on raw numbers?”


Walt smirks. “Exactly. He doesn’t just fight—he exploits the gaps, makes their firepower irrelevant. Angels in California need someone like that. Sharp, unpredictable… willing to get his hands dirty. Someone who can turn chaos into a weapon.”


Davies leans back, letting the weight of the words sink in. “You really think he’d do it?”


Walt’s smirk widens, eyes flicking toward the back of the plane where WS lounges. “If the price is right, and if it’s worth his time… yeah. Kid’s got the instincts, the chaos, the brain for it. Better than anyone else we’ve got in California right now.”


The song swells as the plane hums through the clouds, a quiet, almost ominous backdrop to plans that could reshape the West Coast.


The music is still faint in the background when the overhead crackle of the intercom cuts in.
“Attention, gentlemen. We’re picking up some turbulence ahead. Might need to make a short detour.”


It’s John, the pilot. His voice calm, maybe too calm.


WS’s eyes narrow. A faint itch crawls up his spine. He doesn’t wait—he’s on his feet, long strides taking him to the cabin door. He swings it open without hesitation.


“What’s wrong?” His voice is cold, eyes darting across the dials, the flickering green radar glow.


Through the static of the comms, another voice filters in:
“Control to Angel Bird Three, divert south immediately. Sandstorm incoming—repeat, sandstorm incoming. Do not proceed on current heading.”


WS tilts his head, jaw clenching. A strange calm overtakes him as his instincts flare. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters, low but sharp. “Under these barometric conditions? Impossible. Climatologically, physically, hell—astronomically impossible. Not even a one percent chance of sand anywhere near us for the next week.”


He takes a step forward, about to press harder—


A heavy hand yanks him back. One of the older Angels, grip like iron. “Sit your ass down, kid. Buckle up. Let the pilots do their job.”


WS stares back, confused but not defiant. His instincts scream trap, but the weight of command around him is immovable.


He exhales, nods once, and slides back into his seat. The leather creaks as he buckles the harness across his chest, his eyes locked on the bulkhead.


Puzzled. Suspicious. Silent.


The hum of the engines deepens, and the turbulence begins to shake the fuselage.


The landing is rough, tires screeching against sand and concrete, the desert strip a ghost in the middle of nowhere. The plane slows, engines whining, and as it comes to a halt, WS spots them—fifteen men in leather cuts waiting by two dark vans, dust already settling around their boots.


Davies unbuckles and stands. “Sandstorm’s the code. If something’s off, we divert. Someone at base calls the secondary strip, sets up the welcome. Now—” he claps his hands, sharp. “Grab those boxes. Vans loaded before the feds start sniffing around.”


The cargo door yawns open. Heat slaps them in the face. One by one, the Angels start hauling boxes—stamped, sealed, heavy as sin—down the short ramp. WS grabs one, muscle straining, carrying it out with the rest.


But halfway to the vans, he stops dead. Drops the box with a thud that makes a few heads whip his way. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and walks back inside the plane.


“What the fuck is he doing?” Robertson snarls, adjusting his grip on his own box.


WS reappears in the doorway, expression flat, voice carrying like gravel.
“You want the plane to take off again? Then move faster. You unload quicker, she’s airborne quicker, and your ‘official’ landing comes off clean. Feds lose the scent faster.”


He jerks his chin at the vans.
“Besides—what’s the point of us being pack mules? Vans got wheels. Bring them here. Shit’s heavy as hell, man. Why haul it a hundred feet when you can roll ten?”


A silence follows—half irritation, half grudging realization. A couple of the older Angels exchange glances, as if to say he’s not wrong.


One of the men near the vans mutters, “Kid’s mouthy, but he’s got a point.”


The Angels keep working, rhythm rough but steady—boxes thudding into van bellies, dust swirling under the desert sun. One of the younger guys glances up as a chrome beast rolls down the plane ramp—his bike, gleaming even in the grit. He whistles low.


Then his eyes flick to WS, who’s still moving crates.
“Hey—where’s your bike, Nomad?”


WS wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his arm, deadpan.
“Back in Miami. What, you planning on leaving me stranded out here?”


A few chuckles ripple through the group, but one of the older Angels—gray streaks in his beard, hands calloused from decades on the throttle—steps forward. His voice is gravel, steady.
“Don’t sweat it, kid. You ride mine. I’ll take a seat in the van. Been feeling these bones creak anyway.”


Before WS can answer, the old man shrugs off his cut and tosses it to him. Leather lands heavy in WS’s hands.
“Congratulations. You’re a Sacramento Angel now.”


The air shifts. A few from San Bernardino glance over, a couple from Santa Barbara too. Different patches, one field. WS realizes this isn’t just a crew—it’s statewide.


He slips the cut on, the fit stiff but clean. Eyes all around him weigh the moment. This is official.


WS mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to the air:
“Don’t you need, like… an Apostle’s blessing to move like this? Fucking Californians are crazy…”


Nobody answers. They just get back to work, discipline sharp.


When the last crate is down, the split begins. Five paths, five fronts. The vans roll out first, their tires whispering against the sand. Bikes follow, engines rumbling low, and behind the vans the riders drag makeshift brooms bolted to steel rods—sweeping van tracks clear of the desert floor. Erasing their trail, old school and efficient.


Once rubber kisses asphalt, the formation dissolves. Engines rev, headlights cut, and the crews scatter like ghosts into the night—north, south, inland, coast—until the desert strip is empty, silent, like nothing had ever landed there.


The clubhouse in Sacramento hums with low conversation, smoke drifting under yellowed lights. Bottles clink, laughter rolls, and old rock plays faint from a jukebox in the corner. WS walks up to the old man who lent him the bike and cut, both items in his hands.


“Yours,” he says simply, passing the leather back with a kind of quiet respect. The bike keys follow.


The old man nods, slow, tired but proud. “You rode her clean. Haven’t heard her purr like that in years.”


WS leans against the bar, studying him. “What’s your poison, old man?”


The Angel chuckles, raspy and warm. “Bourbon. Always bourbon.”


Without another word, WS signals the bartender. “Full bottle. Top shelf.” The glass clinks heavy when it lands in front of the old man.


That draws a few raised brows around the room. Most guys buy rounds, shots, maybe share a fifth. A whole bottle? That’s a statement.


Then the bartender looks back to WS. “And you?”


WS doesn’t blink. “Gin.”


The room stills for a second—just long enough for a couple Angels to trade side-eyes and smirks. One mutters under his breath, just loud enough to carry:
“Fancy motherfucker.”


A low chuckle ripples through the crowd, but no malice—more curiosity. He’s not one of them, not yet. But he just bought respect with that bourbon, and the gin… well, it marks him as different.


The old man grins into his beard as he cracks the seal on the bottle. “Let him drink what he wants. If he can ride like he did today, he can sip fucking champagne for all I care.”


WS just smirked. “Could be worse. Champagne. Had it once at a Zane dinner up in New York. Drove five hours, only to be told I couldn’t touch the bottle. Amber dragged me along as her plus-one—Bella couldn’t go. Her ex was dangling her check, so she had to make the rounds.”


“Zanes?” someone asked, confused. “What the hell would the Texas boys be doing up in New York?”


WS shook his head. “Not our Zanes. Not the Texas riders. Those are still Angels, still family. I’m talking William and his sisters—the Northeast branch. They’re the new rich. Took the Zane name and the Angel tie, built a service empire out of it. Then they packed it up and moved close to the power base. Suits and handshakes, not grease and chrome.”


The old man’s eyes narrowed with understanding. “Ah. The kind that cash in on the name.”


WS raised his glass of gin, clinking it gently against the old man’s bourbon. “Exactly. Different breed. Don’t get it twisted.”


One of the older Sacramento Angels, rubbing a scarred hand over his forehead, looked WS square in the eye.
“You the one who came up with that… stupid rules to get kids out?” His voice was rough, tinged with hope and frustration. “Been saving to get my boy free. Still twelve grand short if it works, more if it doesn’t. Otherwise… five more years of waiting.”


WS tilted his head. “You got a money app?”


The old man blinked. “What’s that?”


Walt stepped forward. “I do. Old school guys like you don’t usually. WS can transfer it through me—makes it public, accountable.”


WS didn’t hesitate. Phone out, thumb flying, twelve thousand dollars were instantly routed to Walt.


The old man’s eyes widened, disbelief and relief mixing on his face.
“You… just—”


“Consider it done,” WS said flatly. “Walt’s got you covered. Your boy gets his shot.”


Walt nodded, adding context. “Club usually pools resources for the low-hanging fruit first. Even twelve grand is roughly what twelve members would contribute in a month, counting prospects and hang-arounds. Here, resources are tighter. And even once the money hits the lawyer, it still takes two to five months to get a guy out. Could fail, might need more. Law in America? Ninety percent of the time it isn’t about right or wrong—it’s about how much you can afford and for how long.”


The old man’s relief softened into gratitude. WS had just given up his own money, making a difference the club alone might have struggled to pull off. Around the clubhouse, a low murmur spread. The Angels weren’t used to someone moving this fast, solving problems as they came up. WS had just made his mark—efficient, precise, and unflinching.


WS leaned back, eyes narrowing as he processed everything. “So this auction you’re planning… this is with cartels and other groups?”


Walt shook his head. “No. Military contractors? Not involved. Koreans came up with new body armor—lighter, stronger. Still shatters bones if you get hit, but bullets don’t penetrate as easily. Multiple applications. CIA couldn’t get it through, but one of the Marines worked a warehouse manager over in Busan. The boys just… helped themselves. Could be worth millions.”


WS tilted his head. “And how many brothers you think can get out?”


Walt smiled faintly. “Jarhead operation. Mainly to clean wrap sheets so guys can re-enlist. These new rules? Criminal records block a man from re-enlisting. So guys bitch, cry, we can’t get enough men to join.”


WS’s brow furrowed. “Why would chapters help? You clean records on some guys, they re-enlist… that means fewer brothers at home.”


Walt shrugged. “Ran it through Ray. He said it was the right thing. And besides… cleaning a record, if it’s not jail, it’s cheap. Just misdemeanors. Decent lawyer, no problem. Even if it’s jail, as long as you can dismiss charges, still clean record.”


WS nodded slowly, letting it sink in. The logic was simple, brutal, and effective—just the kind of chaotic efficiency he appreciated.


WS leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Are the Petrovs also bidding?”


Walt nodded. “Yeah… but since it’s protective armor, not weapons, the interest is mild. Today’s operation? Probably CIA hiding as Feds trying to grab it. Relevant to Army and government, sure—but companies don’t ride or die on this. Profit might not justify it. They bleed, get injured, die, but bureaucrats run the numbers. Sometimes a man’s life is worth less than giving every combat role a $5,000–$60,000 protective gear. Even if it increases survivability, men still get hurt, so it doesn’t reduce expenses.”


One of the Angels spoke up, cutting in. “It’s been increased to $400,000 insurance payout for a dead soldier now.”


Walt shrugged. “Yeah, but the numbers still run against a man’s right to survive. They want it delivered to a company to produce it.”


WS nodded slowly, letting it sink in. “I get it. Bureaucrats running numbers… adding 10% to the cost of equipping a soldier, but reducing maybe 3% on expenses when men get injured or killed… okay, 5% if you factor in that new life insurance increase. Still… makes sense for a Washington asshole who’s never been under fire.”


The room was quiet for a beat. Everyone knew WS wasn’t just talking about math—he understood combat, risk, and the real value of life. The bureaucracy? A joke compared to the streets or the field.


While waiting for the meeting, WS trained on the Sacramento chapter’s grounds. The place was almost deserted—wide stretches of asphalt, empty fields, and a few scattered obstacles for weapons drills. Across the road, there were buildings, malls, even factories. But here, on their side, nothing.


One of the younger Angels, watching WS handle a rifle, noticed his gaze drifting. “That’s the county line. Nothing out here because… zoning, taxes, cops… all change once you cross that street.”


WS nodded, scanning the ground. “So the land itself is a buffer. Makes sense.”


Another Angel chimed in. “Yeah, mostly keeps idiots and wannabes out. But the sheriff here—he’s elected, used to be a soldier, and Ray saved him once. Not an Angel, but a few like him exist. We get fair treatment, especially when it comes to leniency on gun laws. Shit’s getting weird in California over it.”


WS raised an eyebrow. “So you can still practice and hone your skills?”


“Exactly,” the first Angel said. “State camp funded by all the California chapters, even a few from Nevada and Arizona. Perfect place to train, stay sharp, and not get busted.”


WS’s lips curved faintly. “Good. Open ground, controlled access, sympathetic law enforcement… I see the advantage.”


The empty fields suddenly didn’t feel so empty—they were strategic, legal, and ready for use.


WS trained relentlessly on the Sacramento chapter grounds, diving into operative work with combined weapons for the first time. He had only read about it before, but now he was coordinating movement, learning to function as part of a unit, synchronizing with others while honing his own marksmanship. His handgun was already precise; his rifle improved by the day.


Yet something still felt… off.


They practiced identifying positions for naval bombardment, making sure he knew how to mark his location so he wouldn’t be accidentally shelled. Flares, wind direction, signaling points—everything mattered. Because the Angels didn’t have dedicated equipment, every calculation ran in their heads. Precision, timing, and anticipation were everything.


They even staged beach landings, creating diversions, calling in fire on specific points to allow others to infiltrate. WS absorbed it all, noting the small details: angles of approach, timing of distractions, the importance of controlling sightlines.


Every day, the drills pushed him harder, combining individual skill with coordinated strategy. By the end of it, WS wasn’t just a good shooter—he was a small cog in a deadly, finely tuned machine.


WS had already sent word of his key location to a chapter near Miami, and his bike was on its way—an Angel courier riding it cross-country to California. Eight thousand dollars spent to get the operation moving, but fuck… he missed Jezebel. She was a beauty.


The day of the meeting arrived. Unlike what he had expected, it wasn’t in a chapter clubhouse but an open field. Around twenty-two chiefs had gathered, each bringing three to four patched members. WS was the only nomad.


As soon as he rolled in, two of the chiefs noticed his bike before they even noticed him. One muttered, surprised. “Zeke’s coming?”


The other shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait… that’s not Zeke.”


Then he looked up, catching WS’s sixteen-year-old face framed by a sharp samurai-style haircut. His frown deepened. “Huh… that explains it.”


WS dismounted, calm and unflinching. Despite the youthfulness of his face, there was a precision and quiet intensity in his movements that made it clear—he was no ordinary kid. The assembled chiefs adjusted, some narrowing their eyes, others leaning slightly forward. Every head in that open field was now aware of him.


One of the chiefs stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “Why are you driving Jezebel?”


WS’s eyes rolled skyward. He let out a loud, exasperated groan. “FUCKING HELL! Is this going to be the Poopypants shit all over again?”


The chief who confronted him visibly shrank, while another chief nearby started laughing. “OMFG… that old story? Thirty years old! Bernard Cornwell shat his pants during a twenty-hour ride!”


WS’s gaze swept both men, calm and calculating. Recognition flickered. By their description, he knew exactly who they were.


“I’m WS,” he said smoothly. “Zeke and Old Poopypants talked about you when you used to ride with the old Zane group back in Texas.”


Both men froze, surprise etched on their faces. “Wait… this kid knows who we are?” one muttered.


WS shrugged, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Well… I pay attention.”


The laughter faded into murmurs, the tension subtly shifting. Even in this open field surrounded by hardened chiefs, WS was already staking his place.


The chiefs exchanged glances, then one asked, “Explain. What’s this story about you and Jezebel?”


WS smirked. “When I visited Gabriel’s tomb, Bern had… tricked and distracted me. I got beaten because he recognized Jezebel.”


Another chief leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Wait… are you the stupid, ugly, arrogant kid who stole the Riders’ Bible?”


WS blinked, surprised.


The first chief continued, shaking his head. “Bern told us the story. Some stupid drunk kid walks into Gabriel’s tomb, starts drinking with the dead, and ends up taking a Riders’ Bible. Bern, in his immense mercy and wisdom, had to lend him two-thirds of his chapter so the kid could scatter like a coward into safety. Almost started a turf war with the Crazy Ducks. But thanks to his insight, he conjured several chapters to come over the Cumberland Gap to save the dumb idiot’s ass. They arrived on time, or else the kid—already shooting Crazy Ducks—would probably be dead.”


WS chuckled softly. “Bern can indeed spin a story. Mostly accurate, but mostly bullshit too—spun to make him look good and me look bad. Meanwhile, I risked my life giving the Angels a trump card while he sat at his table, perfectly safe.”


The chiefs laughed, shaking their heads. “We know Bern well… that sounds exactly like him.


WS stepped forward, calm and steady. “I’m WS,” he said, letting the words hang.


A few of the chiefs exchanged quick glances. One leaned closer to his neighbor and muttered under his breath, “Did he… actually get a Rider Bible?”


The other nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. “Looks like it. All those notes, all those tactics… finally makes sense.”


They continued speaking in hushed tones, careful to keep the conversation private from the other members. Even among Angels, some knowledge was reserved for chiefs and vice chiefs. If they openly admitted that the Riders had a Bible, it wouldn’t take long for other Angels to piece together that they did too—and the contents weren’t meant for just anyone.


WS watched quietly, letting them whisper. He didn’t need to boast. The reputation he’d earned—and the danger the knowledge carried—spoke for itself.


The eldest of the chiefs cleared his throat. “We asked Ray to come. As the original Jarhead sub-chief before becoming national president, his word should be heard.”


WS stiffened. His chest tightened. If Ray dug his nails into him, his freedom would be gone—and he still had a lot of riding to do.


The chief’s voice softened, regret in it. “Sadly… Ray couldn’t come.”


WS exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.


Then, suddenly, a strong grip wrapped around his torso from behind, and a booming voice shouted, “KID! I DID NOT THINK I WOULD EVER SEE YOU AGAIN, YOU CRAZY ASSHOLE!”


WS yelped and twisted, landing on his feet in a defensive stance. He looked up to see a broad-shouldered man ready for a fight. “WTF are you doing here, Murray?”


Murray grinned, lowering into a relaxed fighting stance. “I’m a Jarhead. Patched in while I was in the military. Rode three days straight just to make this meeting. Fucking Californians… pulling on the strength of numbers instead of waiting for the east coast and south chiefs to make it halfway.”


Some of the chiefs shifted uncomfortably. One murmured, “The Feds are already pressing down our necks, trying to get leverage. We couldn’t wait any longer…”


Murray cut them off. “Fine. But the kid stays. He gets a seat. He’s already freed four of his boys using his own money, froze the House on the Hill permanently, and he’s a member of the Mother Chapter. Nomad or not, that deserves a place at the table.”


WS shook his head, stepping back. “I’m just a nomad. I’ll stay out of the circle.”


He leaned against a post and watched quietly as the chiefs debated, the weight of history, strategy, and respect hanging heavy in the air.


The chiefs debated heatedly over what to do with the technology and the samples retrieved from Busan. Most wanted to auction it off immediately, chasing quick profit before the heat of California made things unpredictable.


But the Sacramento contingent pressed WS’s argument: this wasn’t just money. It was existential. The gear had to reach the military. Lives—soldiers’ lives—depended on it. Sell it to the wrong buyer, or inflate the price for profit, and it might never make it into the hands of those who needed it most.


The majority of chiefs, even those with military backgrounds, grumbled. “Why risk delay? We’ve got buyers lined up who’ll pay top dollar!”


WS held up a hand, cutting through the chatter. “Listen… you’re not going to get top dollar. The pool of buyers is tiny, and for those who have access to defense contracts, this is secondary. They’ve probably already reached an agreement among themselves. Prices aren’t going to rise.”


A few chiefs murmured, surprised.


“That’s why the Feds are all over you,” WS continued, pacing slightly. “They have the same instinct. They want it out there. For once, the cops’ and outlaws’ objectives align. Except the cops want it fast and cheap—so they can equip their men. But if it’s cheap for the military, it’s cheap for the cops too. Somehow, the Feds know that nobody’s going to risk a few million in profits when there are billions in planes, weapons, and tanks on the line. They’re trying to get it, maybe even gift it for free. And honestly? If I were running the FBI alongside the CIA, I’d do exactly the same. Their reasoning… is sound.”


One of the chiefs leaned forward, skeptical. “So… should we gift it, after all the money and effort we’ve spent?”


WS shrugged. “If it comes down to it? I would. But it’s not my money, so technically, I don’t have a say. Still… what you have isn’t really a weapon, even though it serves military purposes. It’s clothing. Maybe you can reach out to the Zanes in the Northeast—they sell clothes. Perhaps they could produce it themselves.”


Murray leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Kid… Ray said you had Michael potential. That’s why I’m asking you.”


The invocation of Ray’s name carried weight no one in the room could ignore. To be called “Michael” — the brain of the Angels, the man who had taken over after Gabriel and established their internal rules — was not a trivial matter. If Gabriel had been their heart, Michael was their brain. Samael had been their pocket. Azrael… he had been their rage, the unrelenting fury at the betrayal of their heart.


WS felt the pressure, but also a surge of clarity. This wasn’t about ego. This was about thinking like Michael would, seeing the situation in its totality, and finding a path that preserved lives while navigating a powder keg of competing interests.


Murray’s eyes didn’t leave him. “We need your mind here, kid. Not just opinions… the right solution.”


WS inhaled slowly, realizing that in this room of seasoned chiefs, Ray’s endorsement was more than respect—it was a responsibility. And Michael’s standard was unforgiving.


WS smirked. “We make them ourselves.”


Everyone looked at him, jaws tight or eyebrows raised.


One of the chiefs joked, “Kid… my mother’s actually a pretty good seamstress, but I can’t see her producing a million vests for the Army. Much less the four or five million that cops, mall security, and private firms would require.”


WS didn’t flinch. “Then we buy influence by partnering with someone who can produce them. From what I see, there are 33 chapters here, right? Those chapters take 50% of the future company in equity. Dividends are shared among them. No profit now, but in the future? More than you earn right now… much, much more.”


He leaned in, eyes glinting. “It’s how the Zanes built their empire. Leia bought the illegal assets the Angels sold to recoup losses. William handled the financial assets. Kathie… she’s a marketing genius. She kept the family hunger fed with her skills until they became too big to fail. If we do the same, but for the benefit of the entire club, the future is settled.”


A chief snorted. “Okay, kid… and who can produce them?”


WS’s smirk widened. “The Petrovs, of course. Biggest conglomerate in the country, industrial power to outproduce anyone in the world. And the specific Petrov I’m thinking of contacting? Might bring the Reveras along, so the raw material side is covered too.”


One of the older chiefs laughed incredulously. “You mean you can get a Petrov on your phone and sell them a multimillion-dollar idea with just your smile? If you were Ray, sure. But you… a sixteen-year-old kid? Wake up, kid. The world isn’t a dream.”


WS’s eyes locked on him, intensity radiating like a predator’s. “Indeed, it’s not a dream… it’s a fucking nightmare. And if you wish to survive, you better make sure you’re the scariest thing in that nightmare.”


The chief shivered involuntarily, realizing the weight behind the words and the sheer confidence behind the sixteen-year-old standing before him.


WS raised a hand, silencing the room. “Meeting adjourned. This shit’s going to take longer than expected. We’ll reconvene over at the Angel compound. Anyone without a place to sleep is free to camp out at the clubhouse. Everyone else, stop by the compound when you can… it might take a while to settle a deal.”


The chiefs exchanged glances, some skeptical, some nodding in agreement. WS didn’t wait for approval—he had made his point, and the room knew it. Even as a sixteen-year-old nomad, he had the presence and authority to command their attention.


WS immediately grabbed the phone. 1 a.m. in California… over on the East Coast, it would be… he shrugged. Who cares.


He dialed Jeremiah.


Half asleep, the phone crackled to life. “YOU BETTER HAVE A FUCKING DARN GOOD REASON TO WAKE ME UP OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL CUT OFF YOUR BALLS AND EYES AND REARRANGE THEM!”


WS tilted his head, speaking with the most innocent tone he could muster. “Jeremiah, it’s me… it’s so good to see you’re awake. I need a favor to ask you.”


There was a long pause. Jeremiah squinted through the fog of sleep, trying to place the voice. “…WS? Is that you? Are you finally coming back? Ray’s sent people to Japan, and so have the Petrovs, trying to get you back here, you slippery son of a bitch!”


WS chuckled softly. “It’s funny, because what I need from you is connected to the Petrovs as well. Anyway… you still remember how to use an email?”


“Yeah…” Jeremiah muttered, still half asleep.


“Good. I need you and Obadiah to set up a meeting with Sasha and pitch her an idea for a business.”


Jeremiah’s voice went tight. “I am not your errand boy. Last time I met her, she had an army with her—and that Enessa chick, with the great ass and the rotten attitude, made me feel like a miserable old man. Fuck no. I can send Obadiah.”


WS shook his head. “Obadiah’s too greedy and doesn’t have my diplomatic skills.”


Jeremiah groaned. “If you want a deal with her, you can handle her properly yourself… she does need a proper one handed to her. Perhaps after that, I can face her. But that girl… she’s the devil. Anyone who approaches her without being you? I swear, Enessa will have their balls chopped off before the first word is said.”


Jeremiah sighed. “Fine. I’ll print the email, show it to Obadiah, and set up a meeting with Sasha. You call her to… smooth things over a bit.”


WS grabbed his phone and dialed Sasha… only to discover he was still blocked. He swore under his breath, then grabbed his second phone and checked the time.


“Yeah… I can call her tomorrow,” he muttered to himself. “It would be impolite anyway.”


He tossed the phone onto the table, already planning how he’d handle the conversation once the timing was right. Patience, he reminded himself—everything had to be done on his terms.


The chiefs looked at him like he was an impatient brat, calling the Mother Chapter’s Sergeant-at-Arms at such a late hour. But when it came time to call the Petrov Ice Queen, WS found an excuse not to.


It was clear—he was comfortable enough with Jeremiah to pull something like this, but even he knew his limits when dealing with a Petrov. Some lines, no matter how confident or bold, were better left uncrossed.


WS went to the computer and began composing an email. Every detail, every figure, projected profits—everything laid out with precision. He sent one copy to Jeremiah and another to Nami.


In the email to Nami, he wrote: “Please deliver this to Sasha. I still love you, Nami, and if you choose to hate me, so be it. But I will do whatever needs doing to keep you safe.”


He paused for a moment, staring at the screen, then clicked send. Strategy first, heart second—but even so, he made sure the heart was never ignored.


The next day, Nami called Sasha. “I have something to tell you… and show you,” she said.


Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Finally ready to talk about why you came back from Japan so… sad?”


Nami hesitated. “It’s partly about that… but not all.”


When they met, Nami took a deep breath. “Even though I raised him… I’m afraid of him now. The violence beneath the surface… I always suspected it, but I never really saw it—until now.”


Sasha nodded slowly. “Most men are like that. The difference with WS? He can actually do it. The way he moves among dangerous animals like those bikers, and how they give him space—that shows everything.”


Nami swallowed. “I tried to follow him once into the club… he hit a patched member. I thought… I thought he’d be expelled. But instead, the man was sent to another chapter. Nobody touched WS. I was so scared, but he came to me and… he told me it was okay. That man had only talked to me.”


Sasha smirked faintly. “Like Vidal whenever someone talks to Bella.”


Nami flinched at the comparison. Sasha continued, “Except Vidal isn’t strong. WS… he is. And unlike Vidal and Bella… he has no sexual interest in you. I hope.”


Nami shook her head. “It’s not like that… but… how can you love someone and be scared of them at the same time?”


Sasha let the question hang in the air, knowing there wasn’t an easy answer. Some truths were too tangled for simple explanations.


Sasha: “Is WS still in Japan?”


Nami: “As far as I know, yes.”


Sasha: “My men keep digging, but they can’t seem to find him. And between the Petrovs and the Japanese… it’s like the Reveras and the Chinese. No lost love there.”


Nami: “Wait, so Petrovs and Japanese, even though we’re best friends… and Reveras and Chinese… what about the Zanes? That’s Korean, right?”


Sasha: “Maybe. But Ayuah is half Korean, so… for the Zanes, it’s not really about nationality. They just… hate the world, and the way people behave. Honestly, most of the world hates them too.”


Nami leaned back, running a hand through her hair, still processing everything. “He… he burst into the shrine in Japan, ready to kill some gangsters. Over… over some locker room talk about me. The Japanese were calling me the Red Goddess, and he—he screamed like he was possessed by a demon: ‘Say that one more time about my sister!’ And I’m his only sister.”


Sasha’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus… that’s intense.”


Nami nodded, swallowing. “And then the weird breakfast… great-grandmother sitting on his lap. She was too far away to hear anything, but… it looked like they hated each other when they spoke. But everything they did showed love and concern. He even gave her a piggy ride. And the way they spoke English, with a Korean accent… the Japanese were baffled, thinking they were speaking Korean in their heads.”


Sasha laughed softly. “That’s normal. Even her great-grandfather ran from the Soviet Union—hard to be anything but wary of Russians.”


Nami frowned. “And then… the story he told about the end of the war. I could tell she… she doesn’t have love for the Red Army or Russians in general. And him… he formed this… cult-like thing, almost like a dating sensei for Japanese men. He told me his sheet count. At first, I thought he meant the number of people he’d killed. But when he said the body count on the streets… it was far higher. Way higher. And I realized—he sleeps with over a hundred women, but his real… body count? Multiplied. I don’t even mean plus. Multiplied.”


Sasha blinked. “Wow… okay. And this is the same fragile boy who was afraid of being touched, loud noises, or strong lights?”


Nami let out a bitter laugh. “Exactly. How do you reconcile that? The boy who would flinch at a clap of thunder… and the man who can move through a crowd of killers like a predator and still come back carrying people like they’re nothing?”


Nami grinned, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t believe it, Sasha… how desired I was in Japan. There was this one pupil of WS’s, all cute and shame written on his face… and he even… he approached me. But the second he saw WS, he froze.”


Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”


“He… he actually stood up to WS for me. Said, for me, he’d gladly take a beating.” Nami laughed, a little incredulous. “No man has ever shown that kind of interest in me before!”


Sasha smirked knowingly. “They did, but they’re afraid to approach you. That’s how it goes with the ZPR clique at college.”


Nami frowned, suspicious. “Wait… is WS stalking the college or scaring boys away? Because it seems like no one’s brave enough to even talk to me anymore.”


Sasha shook her head. “Nope. Nobody messes with the ZPR clique at college. And since you’re a member… most men are just too scared to try.”


Nami leaned back, a mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. “So basically… WS indirectly rules my love life, even from Japan?”


Sasha chuckled. “Exactly. And don’t even try to argue. He’s terrifying in ways you don’t even see.”


Nami glanced down at the phone in her hand. “Anyway… there’s something else. I got an email from him. He wants me to deliver it to you.”


Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “An email… from WS?”


Nami nodded, hesitating. “Yes… it’s a business plan. He wants you to see it… and, uh… make a decision on it.”


Sasha leaned back, crossing her arms. “Of course it’s WS. He’d be juggling wars in the streets, college threats, and somehow think the world needs a business plan delivered by you. Typical.”


Nami laughed. “I know… but I think it’s serious. He made sure to emphasize it was important… and, well, he also said… he still loves me, and if I choose to hate him… fine. But he’ll do what’s necessary to keep me safe.”


Sasha’s expression softened. “That sounds… like him. Dangerous, infuriating, protective. Typical WS. Let’s see this plan. Maybe we can keep him from causing a diplomatic incident while he’s at it.”


Sasha leaned back in her chair, scanning the document Nami had handed her. “This plan… it’s brilliant. Probably a bit massaged to make the numbers look shinier than they truly are, but even then… it’s fascinating.”


Nami hesitated. “Um… about the company charter…”


Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that part… it doesn’t seem like him at all. Have you started working on it?”


Nami nodded sheepishly. “I did. I thought… I could use the practice. And when I saw the business plan and how WS wanted to structure the company, I put it down in writing and… ran with it.”


Sasha’s eyes widened slightly. “Your wording is amazing. You’ve basically built the company following WS’s instincts, but you’ve made it coherent, functional… complete. You and WS—your minds complement each other in ways most people could never manage.”


She leaned forward, intensity in her voice. “That’s exactly why I want you to work with me, Nami. No contract will ever get fumbled when you’re on it. Your eye for detail, your ability to catch mistakes in other people’s work, your instinct for spotting legal traps… that allows me to move freely. So please, when you graduate, you won’t work for me… you’ll work with me. I need you, Nami. You’re irreplaceable. I’d need five experienced lawyers to do what you do, and even then… the trust wouldn’t be the same. Only you, Nami.”


Nami felt her cheeks warm and blinked, unsure how to respond.


Sasha gave her a small, approving smile. “You’re invaluable. Never forget that.”


Nami tilted her head. “What now?”


Sasha smirked, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I received a message from the angels. Last time, I might have… been a bit harsh. So this time, we’ll be smart. I’ll call the clique—and Bella too. They’ll negotiate with us, probably not even realizing I know the full plan.”


She paused, glancing at Nami. “And thanks to you, Nami, we have the company charter. That makes everything easier. I need to make a few phone calls; you call the girls and get them here.”


Nami nodded, ready to move, but Sasha waved her off. “Wait—better idea. High-class restaurant downtown. Let’s make these shriveled country bumpkins sweat, trying to fit in somewhere they clearly don’t belong.”


She laughed, low and sharp, dialing her grandfather’s number. “Time to have a little fun,” she muttered, a gleam of evil amusement lighting her eyes.


Sasha calls her dedushka.


“Hey, I need to ask you! When our factories that produced cloth went bust, what happened to them?”



Oleg Petrov (Dedushka):
He leaned back, eyes on Sasha as though weighing whether she was ready to hear it. His voice came low, measured, but unflinching.


“We still maintain the factories… barely. When the Americans let China into the World Trade Organization, much of our industry became impossible to sustain. By then we had already disguised and divested, turned companies into anonymous societies so the losses were shared with investors. It saved us — but millions of others were not so lucky.


Sixty million Americans and Europeans lost their jobs or were forced into humiliating underemployment. Whole towns gutted, entire industries dismantled. And their sacrifice? It lifted hundreds of millions in the Third World out of poverty. Technically, Sasha, that was not a bad thing. History will write it as progress.


But there were two catches.


First — instead of being thanked, those who sacrificed were spat on. Their dignity mocked, their suffering dismissed as weakness. The very elites who gained most sneered at them as if they were relics.


Second — the wealth did not flow as it should have. Only ten percent of the profits ever reached the workers. True, it was a hundred times more than they had earned before. But the other ninety percent? Into the hands of the Zanes, Petrovs, and Reveras of this world. Barely one percent of humanity harnessed the wealth created.


Yes, consumers got cheaper goods. But the wages that paid for them hollowed out nations. No man is an island, Sasha. Not even China or India with their massive populations could produce everything cheaply enough for everyone forever.


And that is the truth. We profited, yes. I profited. I carry that stain. But power… power is not what people imagine. They look at Oleg Petrov and think: absolute. Yet I know better. My power was — and still is — constricted, fragile, hard to wield. I could not stop the tide. I could not save those millions. Maybe my message was not strong enough. Maybe I failed to convince them to vote for their own best interests.


So the truth, Sasha, is this: we gained wealth, but we lost dignity. They were sacrificed, spat upon, and left behind. And I will never pretend otherwise.”


Oleg’s voice slowed into that grave, steady rhythm that always came when he sank too deep into memory. Sasha leaned her chin on her palm, eyes glazing, the words about “sacrifices” and “dignity” rolling off her like dust in a sunbeam. Every time, she thought. Always history lessons, always morality, always the weight of generations pressing on her shoulders.


Still, she was a Petrov. She could play the role. She sat up straighter, put on her brightest, cheeriest voice — the one that made old men smile and loosen vault doors.


“Dedushka…” she tilted her head, almost singsong, “could I have them? The factories. The ones in North Carolina — didn’t they used to make the cloth that went to West Virginia? An army of seamstresses sewing our Ralph Lauren polos and all that stuff?”


For a moment, Oleg just stared at her, caught between pride and dismay. He saw right through the false cheer, but he also recognized the spark: she wasn’t asking for the lesson, she was asking for the tools.


Oleg’s face softened, the steel in his eyes giving way to something more fragile. “I kept them,” he admitted, voice low, “as reminders of my failure. Maybe…” He studied her carefully, as though measuring her spirit. “Maybe you, granddaughter, can rekindle something there. Give those communities back some hope through labor, through employment. Like we did in the seventies and eighties, when Petrovs created things, not just shuffled numbers on screens, trying to squeeze another point of yield — whatever the hell that means.”


He leaned back, a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. “I will sell them to you.”


Sasha’s eyes lit up with quick mischief. “Oh? And what’s the price?”


“A good morning kiss,” Oleg said without hesitation, “for the rest of my life. And a hug, from my favorite granddaughter.”


Sasha’s lips curled into a sly grin. “Dedushka… how am I supposed to persuade Katharina Petrov to give you a kiss every morning?”


Oleg laughed, the sound deep and warm as he reached across to clasp her hand. “You wicked girl.”


The Petrov Conglomerate wasn’t like other dynasties that ate themselves alive by the third generation. No — Oleg had made sure of that. The structure was ironclad.


At birth, every child received a cut of the family group — stocks deposited into a special hedge fund. Oleg himself had started with fifty percent, his brothers and sisters only ten each. Over the decades, as new children were born, those slices were automatically trimmed and redistributed. Nobody outside the family ever saw a share: when one of them sold, it went either to another Petrov or back into the fund, which would dissolve or redistribute accordingly.


The rhythm of payouts was ritual. A lump at marriage. Another, larger one, at the birth of a first child. After that, the heirs lived off dividends, fat streams of cash measured in the millions, without ever touching their principal. Male or female didn’t matter — except the child had to carry the Petrov name. Without it, their cut dropped to ten percent of its rightful share. Still a fortune, but a warning from the family: names matter.


Dishonor was punished in scale. Strip the Petrov name, and you were cast out entirely. Keep it, but disgrace the family, and your payouts shrank for as many years as the elders judged appropriate. And critically: once born, every Petrov stood alone in wealth management. If a father ruined himself, the children’s inheritance remained untouched. Only sins committed before their birth — a branch cut too short on the tree — could weaken their portion.


Enessa’s case was legend among them. When her parents died, the entirety of her branch collapsed into her lap: ten percent of the group, at once, making her both fabulously wealthy and dangerously independent.


Sasha knew all this. She had grown up with it, like breathing. It was why she smiled so sweetly when her grandfather, after one of his endless history lessons, leaned back and said he would “sell” her the North Carolina mills. Everyone knew the truth: the assets were still Petrovs, even if Oleg dressed it up as a personal gift.


He studied her, hands folded. “And what do you bring to this venture, granddaughter? You’ll get fifty percent of the company’s future equity… but who else is involved? Who will make it work?”


“I’ve got the technology to create a new product,” Sasha replied confidently. “The mills are the backbone — the machinery, the production lines — but I have the innovation to turn it into a profitable venture. Everything else can be managed around that.”


Oleg leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Hmm… fifty percent, and the rest?”


“Depends on the partner,” she said, carefully keeping WS’s idea hidden. “But for now, I need your approval to take the mills and start preparing the company charter. I’ve already drafted it to show you how it could be structured.”


He nodded slowly, reading through the charter. “I see… You’re serious. And this is entirely yours to manage?”


“Yes,” Sasha said firmly. “I’ll make it succeed — just as the old Petrov mills once did. And I promise, Dedushka… the workers will see the value of their labor, not just the dividends.”


Oleg chuckled, squeezing her hand. “Very well, granddaughter. Consider it yours. But I expect updates… and perhaps, one morning kiss and hug from my favorite granddaughter, just for old times’ sake.”


Sasha laughed, mischief sparkling in her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” she replied, already plotting the next steps in turning the mills into a real company — all under her control, while keeping WS’s genius in the shadows.


Sasha had already left for the high-class restaurant, but she’d left a copy of the company charter behind. Oleg studied it carefully. Most of the names were unfamiliar to him — a mix of men who had risked everything to get the Busan shipment safely to the States. He didn’t realize that many of them were Angel bikers, chiefs, and former or current military; to him, they were just unknown associates. Only a few names stood out: the Zanes.


One set of initials, E.W., with a 5% allocation, caught his eye. Edgar Wallace from the Texan refineries? he wondered, but it didn’t quite fit. The rest were completely foreign to him — yet that wouldn’t last long. The Petrov network was already moving, and soon he’d know exactly who each of them was.


Sasha held 50% of the company’s future equity. Oleg figured she’d probably bring in investors to fund production, trading equity for capital. The charter hinted at careful planning and strategic allocation, but he had no idea the bulk of the team were Angel bikers.


He leaned back, absorbing the structure. “Interesting,” he murmured to himself. “We’ll see what these Zanes are up to… and soon, I’ll know exactly who the rest really are.”


Meanwhile, Obadiah and Jeremiah were loitering by the restaurant entrance, smoking, getting dirty looks from passersby. Suddenly, a BMW, fully prepped for racing, screeched around the curve and barreled toward them. They jumped out of the way just in time as the car screeched to a stop.


Obadiah instinctively pulled his gun on the car, but froze when Ayuah Zane stepped out of the passenger seat. “Bella’s getting better at racing,” she said casually.


Bella hopped out next, smirking. “Almost had a perfect score… except for those two bums at the entrance. Who knew they could jump so fast?”


When Ayuah noticed the gun in Obadiah’s hand, she froze. Bella glanced back as Jeremiah tried to calm Obadiah down.


“These two bitches just tried to run him down,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter she’s William Zane’s daughter. Anyone who tries to kill me dies. Simple rules for a simple man.”


Ayuah started to panic. “We… we were just having fun! And… what are you doing here? Shaking down high-class restaurants?”


Bella tossed a $25,000 stack of bills at him. “I don’t have time for dirty bikers. If you touch a hair on me, my boyfriend’s brother will handle you. WS is not to be messed with. You two old-timers should know better.”


Jeremiah stepped forward, pressing a hand on Obadiah to keep him restrained. “You better watch your mouth, kid. Name-dropping people who won’t stand by you—at least not against them—is dangerous.”


Bella almost smirked, but her eyes widened seeing how genuinely scared Ayuah was of the two older men. Her pride, however, wouldn’t let her back down. “Sorry,” she said, and strode into the restaurant, leaving Jeremiah holding Obadiah back. “I’m going to skin that bitch alive,” he muttered.


Next came Robin and Nadjia, her car not showing any signs, all black. As the driver stopped and Nadjia stepped out, the two old men looked at her like hungry wolves.


“Dang, what a beauty,” Jeremiah muttered. “Whoooo, daddy likes and daddy wants.”


Nadjia shot them a dismissive glare. Freaking perverts… why can’t she find that dreamy boy WS all the girls talk about to realize all her secret desires? Being catcalled by two disgusting old men wasn’t exactly her fantasy. She probably shouldn’t have had that surgery to make her boobs bigger—the attention she got wasn’t the attention she wanted, and the stares made her uncomfortable.


Then Robin got out, shouting, “Uncle Jeremiah! Uncle Obadiah!” She ran into their arms, kissing each of their cheeks.


Both men froze, dumbstruck. Did they just holler at one of Ray’s niece’s friends?


They stumbled over themselves to recover. “We, uh… just had a stressful situation,” Jeremiah said quickly. “Didn’t mean no harm. Just wanted to impress on her how attractive she was, that’s all.”


Robin laughed and introduced, “This is my secretary for the day, Miss Nadjia Stein.” Then she pointed back at the men: “And this is Jeremiah, sergeant-at-arms in the same club as my uncle—and Nami’s younger brother WS rides with. And Obadiah, WS’s old riding instructor.”


Hearing WS’s name, Nadjia perked up instantly, her earlier irritation evaporating. She started firing off questions about him, leaving both men startled.


How the fuck does the kid do this? they thought. First the Ice Queen… and now a hot—if slightly crazy—blonde bombshell!


It was just then that Enessa stopped by the restaurant, pausing in the doorway. She smiled faintly at the sight of Jeremiah being pestered by Nadjia.


Jeremiah locked eyes with her. Fuck… of course this one had to come…


Meanwhile, Obadiah kept talking, arm draped over Nadjia’s shoulders, already trying his best—and clearly failing—to look her in the eyes instead of her chest.


That’s when Nami stepped out, her expression sharp. “What about my brother?” she snapped, voice taut with anger.


The sudden weight of her presence made the air shift. Obadiah straightened, but before the tension could explode, Sasha appeared behind her. She placed a gentle hand on Nami’s shoulder, a calming anchor.


“Well met, gentlemen,” Sasha said brightly, her poise like ice-water over the room. “Sorry for my delay. I had to get my lawyer—Miss Nami. You must know her as your co-biker, WS, I believe?”


Both men acknowledged her formally, their earlier posturing cut down by Sasha’s presence. With that, the group finally stepped inside the restaurant.


At their table, Bella and Ayuah were still mid-argument.


“Are you insane?” Ayuah hissed. “You pissed off an Angel? Do you have a death wish?”


Bella leaned back, defiant. “WS will handle it. They wouldn’t dare.”


Ayuah slammed her hand against the table. “Don’t be stupid, Bella! WS can’t protect you from a patched member—especially not with an accusation of attempted murder.”


Bella scoffed, brushing her hair back with a flick. “I already paid him for his trouble, so everything should be fine. It’s not like they’d ever let two vagabond-looking dudes like that inside anyway—”


Her words froze in her throat as Jeremiah and Obadiah stepped into the restaurant, ignoring the maître d’, and sat down right across from them.


“Ladies,” Jeremiah said, his voice low, rough, and steady. “We were having a conversation before you ran inside scared, I believe?”


The shift in the air was immediate. Even Bella, all arrogance and bravado, felt her stomach twist. Around the table, the rest of the girls exchanged quick looks—they all understood something was wrong.


Ayuah swallowed hard, her voice cracking as she tried to take control. “I… I already called my father. But listen, we meant no harm, honestly. We were just—just having fun.”


Jeremiah leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on her. His grin was small and dangerous. “It’s fine. The money covered the trouble. But it’s not about that anymore…”


Obadiah tapped the table with two fingers, like a judge’s gavel.


Jeremiah’s gaze shifted to Bella, pinning her down. “It’s about the name-dropping. Dropping club members’ names. Especially unpatched prospects. Ones who aren’t even in town right now.”


The tension was thick enough to choke on. Even Bella, usually too proud to back down, felt her bravado crack just a little at the edges.


Robin, sensing the tension about to boil over, jumped up and wrapped her arms around Bella in a sudden, almost childlike embrace. “Stop being meanies to my friends, uncles!” she pleaded, her big eyes flicking between Jeremiah and Obadiah.


The two old bikers froze, glancing at each other. Robin’s innocence melted something in them, softening even Jeremiah’s hard scowl. He let out a low sigh, shaking his head. “Alright, alright… for you, kiddo.”


Obadiah leaned back in his chair, but his eyes never left Bella. His voice carried the weight of gravel and steel. “Girl, next time you feel like name-dropping, don’t go using WS. He ain’t patched, he ain’t here, and he sure as hell can’t cover for you if you cross the line. You say ‘Uncle Ray’—that carries weight around here.”


Nami, realizing in that instant what Bella had done—and the danger it could’ve caused her brother—shot Bella a murderous glare that could have cut glass.


Ayuah noticed it too, and her instincts kicked in. Without a word, she slid closer and wrapped Bella up from the other side, hugging her tight. Now Bella was trapped between them, a human sandwich of two friends desperately trying to shield her from both her own arrogance and the storm she had just barely escaped.


Bella tried to smirk, but her pride wavered under the crushing reality—she had only gotten out of this alive because Robin and Ayuah covered her stupidity.


Jeremiah slid the folded plans across the polished table toward Sasha. She barely spared them a glance, her manicured fingers brushing the paper aside as though it were a menu she wasn’t interested in.


“So,” she said, her tone casual, almost bored, “what does WS want out of this?”


Jeremiah leaned back, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Five percent. That’s for bringing you the idea. And me and Obadiah here get our cut as well.”


Sasha’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, cold, but with a faint curl of amusement at the corner of her lips. “Why one percent per chief?”


Obadiah grunted, answering for his brother. “’Cause it don’t stay with the chiefs. It filters down. Each patched member gets his share, same as always. The mother chapter takes one percent, then it gets divided across the ranks. Keeps it fair, keeps it clean.”


Sasha sat back, tapping her nails against the crystal glass of water in front of her. Then, with deliberate calm, she reached into her bag and pulled out a neatly bound document. “Here,” she said, sliding it across. “The charter. I was late because I had my lawyer review it. Miss Nami.”


All eyes at the table shifted.


Nami, sitting silently beside Sasha, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Her face was expressionless, but the presence she carried was sharp enough to slice the air.


Jeremiah and Obadiah exchanged a glance. They remembered WS’s eyes once—burning with rage—when a prospect had dared to look at his sister the wrong way. That lesson had been branded deep: she was off the table.


Obadiah looked away first, rubbing his jaw. Jeremiah clicked his tongue, muttering something under his breath.


Women. Always at the center of storms. Jessy had set off the biker civil war just by loving two men, and now here they were again—seven to two, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, debating “equal partnership” in a high-class joint where even the bread cost more than a week’s bar tab.


They sat in their best boots—good boots, military grade—but they felt the stares. Everyone in this place was watching them, judging them, measuring them against silk dresses and Armani suits. And for the first time in a long time, Jeremiah wondered if they’d walked into a fight they hadn’t prepared for.


Jeremiah leaned forward, arms on the table, his eyes narrowing on Sasha.
“And what exactly do you bring to the table, girl?”


Sasha didn’t even flinch. She reached into her leather portfolio and laid down a stack of papers with deliberate grace. “The deeds,” she said simply. “Thirty-two of them. Clothing mills, all standing. The land, the machinery inside, and the licenses. They’re mine.”


The girls around the table leaned in as Sasha continued, her voice smooth but carrying weight. “My friends—Nami included—will contribute resources or work depending on ability. Equity measured by skill, by results. Robin here,” she gestured, “already secured the raw materials. First-year production is hers in equity. And she has savings—those add extra weight to her share.”


Robin smiled modestly, though her eyes sparkled. “Securing the cotton wasn’t hard if you know who to call.”


Ayuah leaned forward next, pride flashing in her grin. “And I’ve already sourced the machinery. We were supposed to bring it in from Germany, but my mother pointed out Korean machinery would fit these specs better. Which makes me wonder…” She paused, her gaze landing directly on Jeremiah and Obadiah. “…where did you get the technology in the first place?”


The two old bikers exchanged a glance, the kind that passed a whole conversation in silence. Jeremiah cleared his throat and leaned back, unbothered.


“We let your friend walk easy,” he said. “Cut us some slack. We’re not scientists, but not all Angels are just muscle. Some got brains. An Angel came up with it.”


Ayuah scoffed openly, tossing her hair back with a sharp laugh. “Yeah, right.” She’d grown up surrounded by Angels—hell, a dozen were her cousins. She’d seen their strengths and weaknesses firsthand. “Only one I ever met with brains was Uncle Ray.” Her smirk turned sharper. “And then there’s WS. Everyone talks about him like he’s some prodigy, but I’ve never even met him.”


The table went still.


Nami stiffened beside Sasha, her knuckles tightening around her glass. Robin’s eyes darted toward her, worried she might snap.


Ayuah continued, her tone skeptical. “Smart, sure. But this smart?” She gestured to the plans, the machinery, the whole industrial scheme laid out before them. “No way. If Nami was a chemist or an engineer, maybe. Vidal’s in medicine, that I know. But WS?” She shrugged, dismissive. “If what people say is true, maybe he could. If he wanted. But does anyone here really believe he would?”


Obadiah’s jaw tightened. Jeremiah just grinned into his cigarette, not saying a word


Nadjia’s pen scratched across her notebook, but not all the notes were professional. Half of them were for herself—mental margins she’d learned to write down when instincts started whispering. She scanned the table, looking for weaknesses, and it wasn’t hard. These men were really over their heads. Sure, in battle they looked like they could hold their own—hell, Jeremiah in particular gave her a shiver down her spine. He was the type you just knew could finish a fight, stand over the carnage, and grin while everyone else was bent over, barfing, or praying to God they’d survived. But here? In this setup, with deeds and charters and words like equity flying around? She almost pitied them.


Almost.


Sasha began to speak, her tone smooth, when Jeremiah cut across her. “WS gave clear instructions—no negotiating equity.” He paused, exhaling smoke. “But Ray allowed concessions when it comes to investment. If more’s needed, the Mother Chapter is willing to throw in some cash.”


Sasha didn’t blink. She simply tilted her head. “Where is WS?”


Jeremiah shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Far as I know, still in Japan. Misawa. Coordinated the transport.”


Obadiah added, “Traveled through Korea to survey the groundwork.”


And then they both shut up. The sudden stop was louder than their words.


Nadjia’s pen stilled. Their nerves had just betrayed them.


They had basically admitted what she suspected: the Angels had stolen the technology. But instead of fencing it quick and dirty like the old days, instead of cashing out and vanishing, they were planting roots. Laying foundations. Building a future.


She leaned back slightly, lips parting just enough to form a smirk. These were hard men in a world they didn’t belong in—and yet they were still dangerous, because somehow WS had pushed them into playing empire-builders.


Obadiah shot Jeremiah a look, silent but loaded: Should we run?


Enessa leaned over the two men, her arms draping around them. Her perfume lingered in the air, leaving them smirking despite themselves.


“The funny part,” she murmured, “is that we paid fortunes in Japan to find the kid… and he just vanished. Are you lying to us?”


Jeremiah shook his head. “Even if they knew, they don’t sell out brothers. They’d asked the Petrovs to find him and bring him back, but instead… they scared him away. Sent him to Japan. With flyers. Showing his face—dark hair, everything.”


Enessa’s eyes narrowed. “Which flyers, Jer?”


Jeremiah pulled out a tattered pamphlet, yellowed at the edges. “A Jack Brown flyer. Scattered all over the South.”


Enessa glanced at Sasha. “These… ain’t ours. Seems like something… riders would do.”


Obadiah frowned. Concern etched across his face. “Did the Riders track him down?”


Nami studied their expressions carefully, every twitch and hesitation, every micro-gesture. Her teachers had been WS—and herself, learning to read the world the way he had taught her. All she saw in their faces was apprehension… and fear.


“Riders?” she asked.


Robin spoke up. “It’s a rival MC group. Strong in the Northwest and Great Lakes regions. Lately, they’ve been cursed with a string of bad luck. Thousands of prospects and hangers-on left. Hundreds have died in… uncommon accidents.”


Nami froze. Her mind went to WS’s words. In street terms, he had multiples of hundreds on his conscience.


Nami’s eyes widened. “Hundreds… dead?”


Robin nodded grimly. “Yes. Just four months ago, during a thunderstorm, twelve died and twenty-three were injured—faulty rod. When winter ended, one of their clubhouses caught fire. Firemen said they hadn’t cleaned it properly, and when they discharged the gas… it exploded. Pretty usual for that region.”


Nami shivered.


Robin continued, her voice steady. “Another one: the clubhouse was over the river. When the ice unfroze, the shack just dropped into the still-freezing water. Three dead, seven hospitalized with hypothermia. And these kinds of accidents have been happening for seven months now.”


Nami’s mind raced. “Seven months… that’s… how long WS’s room has been empty.”


Nami’s mouth snapped shut, but everyone had already heard her whisper the words.


Jeremiah and Obadiah exchanged a look, smiling like proud teachers.


Obadiah muttered under his breath, “He didn’t just carve a path… he mined the whole damn field. Fucker’s more dangerous than Az…”


Silence hung heavy, but their smiles didn’t fade. They knew they were in the wrong battlefield, outnumbered by sharp-tongued heiresses and lawyers—but that was the point. Angels weren’t here to be heroes in pretty places like this. Angels were warriors. If shit went south, it wouldn’t be the girls holding the line. It would be them.


Sasha slipped her hand over Nami’s, grounding her. Bella just stared, stunned. That dude had been pulling off all that carnage in the shadows and still had time to flirt with her over the phone? Her heart thudded. If he doesn’t pick up tonight… fuck it. I’ll ride Vidal until he’s dry, even if it kills him.


Nadjia, meanwhile, leaned back with a wicked grin. The thought burned in her mind: If he can do that to men in the street, what would he do to a woman like me in the sheets? Ugly or not, I don’t care. I want that rawness. That chaos. That unhinged power.


And Ayuah—her thoughts spun in a different orbit. She had just gotten Sasha’s call telling her to “play along” and had seen the schematics. Nothing about the numbers made sense—sloppy, like something translated poorly from Korean. She’d recognized the handwriting style from old school projects about her heritage, even from when she’d explained how to stitch traditional Korean dresses back in primary school. Now, she was half-convinced her aunt Leia would bankroll her just to spite her father.


Crazy families. Siblings who worked together and hated each other at the same time. Ayuah sat back, staring at the table. Where the hell did it all begin for them to end up like this?


Robin resumed, her voice cutting through the tension. “So… we have a deal. The materials—when can we get the samples and start production?”


Jeremiah leaned back, calm. “As fast as it takes to ship them over from California.”


Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “Is… WS there?”


Obadiah exhaled like the question exhausted him. “Girl, whenever you go looking for him, things get worse—for him and for us. Just… stop it already. Buy a dildo or something. Geez. What did that poor boy ever do to deserve being haunted by you?”


Sasha froze, caught off guard by the brutality in his words. Heat rose in her chest, and anger clawed its way up. She wanted to grab his head and slam it into the table again and again.


These damn bikers… they took an innocent boy and turned him into a monster. And now I’m the problem? For trying to protect him?


Her mind reeled. Had she acted sooner—before his suspension—she could have pulled him out of that life. That scared, fragile boy, manipulated by ruthless monsters… she had come too late.


Her fists tightened in her lap, her gaze fixed on a point far beyond the table. Rage, sorrow, and helplessness swirled together. WS wasn’t just missing—he was trapped in a war he never wanted. And somehow, she felt the weight of it all on herself.


As the two men rose and left, Bella glanced at Sasha and smirked. “Dang, they got you good. You looked so pissed.”


Sasha’s lips curled in a sharp retort. “Shut up, you slut. If you’d used your arts, he wouldn’t be missing.”


She held Nami close, who was pale, her only news about WS coming from Nojiko—barely a phone call, nothing more. Even now, the numbers she’d heard—the dead, the injured—were still hammering in her mind. The traps WS had planted were still claiming victims.


Bella’s thoughts ran wild. He somehow still had time to play with me… while all this was happening?


Sasha’s jaw tightened. The boy wasn’t just missing—he was waging a war behind the scenes, and everyone else was scrambling to keep up.


Ayuah said, “I can get the machinery from Korea… it’s been a while since the States had industrial deliveries. Let’s just hope North Carolina doesn’t turn communist before we can recoup our investment.”


Bella frowned, crossing her arms. “I’m low on money, but I could chip in… maybe fifty thousand a month. And I’m not asking my father for this. Honestly, you’re only doing this project to trap that boy into your bed, right? If you just offered him fifty thousand, he’d probably say yes—and we wouldn’t be wasting millions.”


Nami silently agreed with Bella, thinking, She’s right. If Sasha just paid him off, this whole massive operation wouldn’t be necessary. But no one else would ever say it out loud…


Sasha shook her head. “WS is not like that.”


Nami remembered how he had told her about running auctions with women to see which would bid the highest to sleep with him. No, Sasha, he is exactly like that… She kept quiet.


Nadjia hesitated. “What can I do? My savings are barely 230,000. I’m not rich like the rest of you…”


Robin glanced at her. “I could go in with around seven million.”


All the girls stared.


Robin shrugged. “I have a hundred thousand a month allowance like every normal girl here, so I save a lot. Besides, with Sasha bringing in all these mills initially, we only really need one. If demand picks up, we can expand later.”


Enessa entered. “Sasha and I will keep twenty percent of the equity. Ayuah and Robin can have fifteen percent each. What we don’t contribute in machinery or raw materials, we’ll make up in money.”


Sasha looked at her. “You want in as well?”


Enessa smiled. “I own ten percent of the Petrov wealth—that’s at least 120 billion, probably more. I don’t even count dividends anymore. I bodyguard for you because I like you. I may never beat your father, but you might. And if you ever decide to wrest power from him, I’ll stand by your side.”


Enessa called Dedushka. “Grandfather, the other partners… they’re from the Angel chapters. But it’s not the usual ring around the mother chapter. This is different. And it seems they got the technology from Korea—probably a military group. I suspect the Jarheads. They ‘leave’ the Angels during service, but nobody’s fooled—they’re still Angels through and through.”


Oleg raised an eyebrow. “Is it a shake-down?”


“Probably not,” Enessa replied. “At least, not the usual kind. It seems Sasha might be onto this… over a boy. Nami’s younger brother.”


Oleg’s voice tightened. “Is it the one that went missing a few months ago?”


“Yes,” Enessa confirmed. “It’s a pity I can’t get to know the young man. Ray keeps him really close to his chest. When I asked for help to track him down, I assumed we’d have a chance to evaluate him—see how good of a companion he might be for Sasha. But he’s slippery. Judging from his brother, though, he’ll be a dutiful husband, providing her with beautiful Petrov babies.”


Oleg’s gaze softened. “Which reminds me, my sweet niece… you and that Jeremiah seem to have chemistry.”


“I’m not interested,” Enessa said firmly.


“I’m even willing for her to have children outside of marriage,” Oleg continued, sighing. “But I’m saddened that someone so smart and brilliant as her won’t gift him a proper Petrov to grow. Your father was truly special, had vision… we need more like him in this family.”


The girls continued debating the plans and logistics to get this operation running. If it worked, they would be rich independently of their families.


Nami tilted her head. “So… what does WS actually want out of this?”


Enessa shrugged. “Probably that it just… gets done. If it were about profit, he would’ve gone to Ivan, not to Sasha.”


Robin nodded. “It’s because with this, soldiers’ survivability increases. That’s why he’s doing it.”


Ayuah smiled. “Yeah, but this could be a goldmine. Think about how many cops and private contractors exist in this country. Finally, I won’t be dependent on my aunts or father for wealth… I’m buying a new McLaren.”


Bella raised an eyebrow. “You really think this can work?”


Ayuah shrugged.

bella “Well, I could call my father. How much for a 1% stake?”


Robin shook her head. “Not so fast. Many things aren’t accounted for yet. It’ll depend on the gross margin, production efficiency…”


Sasha’s mind clicked. “That’s why he came to me. It’s too expensive to produce right now, which would make the gross margin high, but expensive products mean the military won’t buy it, and only a few cops might. He wants cheap.”


Nami nodded. “He’s always been a cheap bastard.”


Bella frowned. “How cheap?”


Enessa ran the numbers in her head.


Nadja spoke up. “Probably below $5,000. The cheaper it is, the better. If we set it up right, we could operate a factory or mill with automation, and I’d be part of that project—overseeing processes and ensuring efficiency. That would cut costs below even the lowest-cost producers, like Bangladesh.”


Ayuah shook her head. “But that defeats his purpose. If we overproduce and keep it too cheap, it could flood the market and tank the price. Think of it like the diamond market. Plenty of diamonds exist, but prices stay high because supply is controlled. He wants to bypass that. That’s why he didn’t go to the defense industry like anyone would initially. He went into clothing, and since that sector sucks in America, he decided to rebuild it.”


The girls exchanged impressed looks. Each one began to see the scope of what WS was planning—and the genius in his method. Cheap, efficient, scalable… and dangerously profitable, probably,maybe.


The girls continued brainstorming logistics, production, and investments, throwing ideas back and forth while trying to make sense of the company plan.


Sasha shrugged. “Last time his passport beeped, he entered Japan. Nothing else. He could’ve gone by boat…”


Robin smirked. “Or a waterbike. He is a biker, right?”


Nadja rolled her eyes, grinning. “The adventures of the outlaw waterbiker—spraying unsuspecting families and being rude to little children.”


The image of a tough outlaw biker zipping across the water made them all laugh, a rare moment of levity amid serious planning.



Bella frowned. “We need a manager and a project manager… but we could combine them in the same person, especially since we hold most of the shares.”


Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Wait, 50/50—how can that be a majority?”


Bella explained, “If the angels want to block our initiatives, they’d have to call a general assembly. That asshole who holds 5% would need to be present in person to vote—no remote representation.”


Nami smirked faintly. “Exactly. I made sure the charter requires in-person voting. He can’t just pick someone to represent him or skip out. If he wants to block anything, he has to show up… which, knowing him, he won’t.”


Nami shrugged. “If he felt trapped like that? He’d probably gift the shares to the club. He doesn’t need the money—he’s found ways to earn what he wants without screwing anyone over. If he felt pressed, he’d just walk away and drop the shares.”


Bella nodded slowly. “Figures. That’s why the clause works so well—it doesn’t force him to do anything, but it makes our majority real.”


Sasha feels the irritation building. She’s holding most of the real leverage—the factories, the connections, the machinery—but the charter chiefs are only bringing the technology. Robin’s securing the raw materials, Ayuah’s lining up the machinery and contacts, and Nadjia is already drafting marketing strategies, while Nami slogs through the legal minutiae.


Lazy bikers, thinking they can ride on the girls’ brains and money while demanding half? No way. Sasha realizes she’s been so focused on WS she forgot how much power she and her friends actually have. Honestly, ten percent would have been more than enough for them. The rest? Well, that’s hers to control.


The next day, Sasha storms into the clubhouse, voice sharp and commanding. “If you charters want your equity to stand, you’re going to have to put in actual money. Real investment. Not just showing up with technology,” she says, eyes scanning the room. She already knows what drives them—it’s not profit. Those body armors are about preserving their brothers’ lives.


Jeremiah blinks, taken aback, while Ray—hearing Sasha’s voice—bolts out the back door. Annoying kid, he mutters under his breath, thinking of WS and the way he’s managed to influence the Jarhead chiefs over the phone. He should have attended the powwow instead of letting a kid manipulate the other chiefs from thousands of miles away. Sell it to the highest bidder and be done with it.


According to Sacramento, WS is still in Japan—but exactly where? Nobody knows. Three chapters can’t even cover a country of over 100 million people. Jeremiah clears his throat. “I’ll talk to the other chiefs, feel out their opinions. Meanwhile, the mother chapter will use the Petrov contract to cover any investment necessary.” He grimaces, knowing it won’t leave the ring happy, but the future profits and the purpose behind this project should keep them on board.


Sasha’s gaze sharpens. “Where is WS? No bullshit this time.”


Jeremiah hesitates. “Nobody knows. Sacramento and Minnesota talked to him over the phone, and that’s how they influenced their vote and provided the setup for the company plan. Best I can do is give you his phone.”


Sasha snatches it and freezes. The number flashes on the screen—blocked. Her mind clicks: she had actually blocked his number. And over the phone, of all things, he had been manipulating these chapters from Japan. She swallows, suddenly realizing just how impossible this call might be.


Sasha stared at the screen, finger hovering over the dial. She had everything—funding from the Angels, charters on board, machinery lined up, and even WS’s phone number in her hand.


Her thumb pressed call.


“Number blocked.”


She froze. Blinked. Tried again. Same message.


Her heart skipped. She scrolled through her contacts. WS wasn’t even saved—she hadn’t stored his number. And yet… there it was, blocked.


Confusion churned in her chest. When had she done this? Months ago? Weeks? She couldn’t remember. She must have blocked it herself.


Sasha shoved the phone into her pocket, exhaling sharply. All the pieces were in place, all the leverage she needed, and now… this. Her own hand had put up the wall she’d been trying to tear down.


She shook her head, muttering, “When the hell did I do that?”


Turning on her heel, she left the clubhouse, mind racing with plans, questions, and the bitter irony of being blocked by herself.


In Sacramento, the state chiefs and patched members were gathered, WS sitting quietly as the guest of honor. The room buzzed with congratulations over the Petrov deal—everything had gone smoothly, exactly as planned.


Then a call came through. Jeremiah answered and turned to the room. “Sasha insists that the chapters contribute to the investment. If you want, you can match her; if not, Mother Chapter will cover it and distribute the equity among the ring chapters.”


There was a pause, and the California chiefs exchanged uneasy glances. “We can’t afford that right now,” one finally said. “Go ahead and use Mother Chapter and ring resources to secure the equity.”


WS’s eyes narrowed. His plan had been flawless on paper, every angle calculated—but in real time, it had already shifted without his input. A perfect design, now bending around the will of others, and he could do nothing but watch.


WS looked around the room, expression tight. “Seems my Michael isn’t as extraordinary as we needed,” he muttered.


A low murmur ran through the chiefs. Some complained—without the funds, their future wealth would shrink. Others shrugged. “At least now the clean records operation won’t be draining brothers into reenlistment,” one said. “If the government really wants warriors, they can bend their knees—or fuck right off. Politicians want our blood without ever staining their hands? Too bad. Suckers, you played yourselves.”


WS didn’t reply. He simply observed. Plans had shifted, resources were constrained—but the brothers would survive. That, at least, was still on track.


WS nodded to the chiefs. “Thank you for keeping my whereabouts a secret.”


One of the older chiefs frowned. “It’s not right to lie to a brother, even if it’s for another brother. He’d better be as good as the legend paints him.”


WS’s lips curved slightly. “So does he. If not, he’ll be the one dead soon enough. But right now, we need a plan to control the cartels. Trains? Cars? Nobody knows. We need eyes everywhere.”


He paused, thinking. “Get me an informatics engineer. I need a bug on the train central hub.”


Two days later, WS slipped into the central hub. Calmly, efficiently, he planted a virus on the train computer terminal. Any name flagged on the Mexican federales’ or FBI’s wanted lists would trigger a prior warning.


The Sacramento chief raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t the FBI already do this?”


WS shook his head. “I doubt it. Anyway, if they identify someone they don’t like, they can track them down. Our engineer has hacked the cameras for every train station in the state. If a flagged name pops up, we match it to a face. Wrong guy? Well… TCB has a meaning among us.”


Over the next three days, WS infiltrated several locations, installing the same software. Outlaws normally avoided public transportation, but the cartels—armed and mobile, with no fixed bases—were ghosts disrupting order. He needed a way to counter them.


Once that was done, he rode through Texas and Arizona, doing the same. His infiltration skills were unmatched. He traveled with six bodyguards, all removing their cuts and wearing nomad patches—half a chapter of nomads the Crow chapter wouldn’t dare touch.


Three weeks in, Sacramento had established quick lines with San Fresno and Fort Worth. It worked. Enemies were identified; some were neutralized, others arrested or deported. Angels didn’t like relying on cops, but risking brothers wasn’t an option.


WS took a detour to McAllen, south of Edinburgh, and neutralized an MS-13 drug den. To his surprise, once he finished, his bodyguards quietly cleaned up the scene, leaving no trace for the news. He then contacted other chapters to identify opportunities for small strikes, focusing on smaller gangs in Texas and Arizona that refused to pay tribute.


His elite squad became a silent nightmare—brutally efficient without alerting the authorities. WS himself avoided firearms, moving like a ghost at night with only a knife. In Fort Bliss, they crossed the border, torching two entire Zetas’ houses. The gang was well-trained and brave, but WS coordinated with his team: while sharpshooters drew fire, he struck with surgical precision.


During the second hour, WS had to deliberately draw fire himself, using firecrackers, balloons, and flashlights, allowing his sharpshooters to eliminate the threats. The warning was clear: “Mess with the Angels, and we cross the border to burn you out.”


The operation caused so much panic that one gang fled five miles past the border. When border agents asked why, the gang explained that “crazy Chicanos” had forced them out. The cops laughed, understanding only that the gang had narrowly escaped a skilled and merciless assault.


In New Mexico, WS ran into a group of bikers who were neither hostile nor allied. Over beers, they shared a safe pass over the Gila Forest—a route that allowed WS and his squad to move undetected. These bikers wanted nothing to do with either the Angels or the Riders, and in return, they let WS pass freely.


The Riders, meanwhile, stayed hidden in their clubhouses, letting themselves be pushed back without conflict. From there, WS’s group used the Sitgreaves Forest to continue their ride, Josh Turner’s Would You Go With Me playing on the radio.


When they reached Phoenix—a city with over fifteen Angel chapters and only one Riders chapter—WS considered striking the Riders. Local Angels, however, advised him against it, noting that if the Riders made a move, the Angels would crush them immediately.


WS asked one of his brothers, a man named Rupert, “Wasn’t the southern border on fire?”


Rupert shook his head. “Not for people in our line of business. The real problems are in California. MS doesn’t have much room to grow here—too much desert, too few places to hide. They’re easy to spot and take out.”


WS nodded. “Biker land, but the coast… cities merging, stretching for miles without end. Street gangs have the upper hand there since moving around is harder.”


After the Texas border chaos, WS and his seven-man Nomad squad kept to the shadows. Every move was calculated—seven hardened bikers disappearing into the night, gangs vanishing without a trace—it drew attention, but not the kind that could pin them down. Fires in Mexico had set off alarms, but the angels had enough connections to shield them. Still, they needed a place to breathe.


They stumbled into a few club parties in Phoenix. Music pounding, neon cutting through the smoke, bodies pressed together in heat and rhythm. Here, the Nomads were just another group of partygoers—no one looked twice. Even with prospect trackers circulating, WS’s group was impossible to pin down. The desert sun had tanned him, the countless hours on his bike leaving a hardened sheen on his skin, and the weeks of adrenaline-fueled rides had honed his instincts to near-perfection.


As Post Malone ft. Blake Shelton – Pour Me A Drink filled the club, WS let himself loosen. He accepted a drink, then another, and, curious, tried pot for the first time in his life. The world slowed and warped. The music, the crowd, the strobe lights—all blended together. Two girls who had been watching him for a while gravitated close, laughing, touching, whispering. He barely registered their presence, caught in the rare sensation of normal human contact after months of ghosting across borders, gangs, and gunfire.


The night became a blur. Shadows, laughter, music, and smoke all meshed into a chaotic haze. He felt alive in a way that had nothing to do with his missions or the constant weight of responsibility on his shoulders.


When he awoke, sunlight searing his skin, the sound of the desert wind whipping past, he realized the two girls were naked on the back of the truck with him. Memories were fragmented—snapshots, laughter, whispers, blurred touches. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to piece together the night.


“They… seem satisfied,” he noted dryly to himself, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.


He pushed himself upright, glaring at the truck bed as if it had betrayed him. “Fuck drugs… guess they aren’t for me.” His voice was flat, almost humorless, but beneath it lingered a faint relief. No matter how chaotic his life got, he knew one thing: he would never let anything take control of him. Not drugs. Not distractions. Not even fleeting pleasures. The chaos outside? That was just part of the ride.


He kicked off the blanket, adjusted his leather jacket, and swung his legs over the side of the truck. The desert stretched endlessly before him. Sunburnt, hungover, and haunted by his own efficiency, WS mounted his bike. The road was calling, and for the first time in months, he didn’t feel hunted—he felt alive.


WS rode back into California, the desert sun fading behind him. His body ached from weeks of nonstop riding, stealth operations, and desert heat. The Nomads rode silently beside him, their bikes rumbling like distant thunder, each lost in their own thoughts.


He felt every mile in his bones—the tension, the adrenaline, the weight of the missions still simmering under his skin. The chaos of Texas and New Mexico had left him drained, even as his mind ticked over the work still ahead.


By the time he crossed the state line, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and gold. The streets of California felt almost ordinary, a sharp contrast to the desert wilderness he’d just left. He was tired, spent, and yet… alive.


For now, he let the city swallow him, the noise and lights a strange kind of comfort. He needed this—rest, clarity, space to think. The missions would wait. The angels, the gangs, the stolen technology—they’d all still be there tomorrow. But tonight, WS just rode.

 

[Warscared]

The motel room smelled of sweat, leather, and exhaustion. For a day and a half, the seven nomads barely stirred, only rolling over to piss, down water, and collapse again. The desert ride had drained them bone-deep. WS stared at the cracked ceiling, feeling every ache in his body. Riding alone, he’d always moved faster, hit harder, disappeared cleaner. But moving as a unit? It dragged. Slower. Louder. Riskier.


Still, his mind kept circling back to Fort Bliss—the Zetas. If not for his boys holding the line, he’d be a corpse rotting in Mexico right now. Was that how the original Azrael had gone down? Overextended, underprepared, believing the myth of himself until the reality caught up? Maybe.


WS swung his legs off the bed, ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, and glanced around. His men were still dead to the world, spread across the cheap mattresses like broken statues. They needed another day at least.


Good enough. No clubhouse tonight. No patch politics. Just quiet.


He grabbed his phone, called an Uber, and stepped into the night. The air was cooler, the neon buzzing over the motel lot. A beat-up sedan pulled up, the driver giving him a cautious glance but saying nothing when WS slid into the back.


“Local watering hole,” WS muttered. “Anywhere with booze and no questions.”


The car pulled away, carrying him toward some nameless bar where he could disappear into the noise, a stranger with a drink, no patch, no past.


The bar was dim, wood worn down by years of boots and elbows. A cover band was on stage, and the first chords hit him like a brick: Linkin Park – Breaking the Habit.


WS froze in the doorway. The song dragged him backward in time, back to Nami’s room. Eight years old, clutching Frankenstein in his hands, scared he might be the monster Shelley had written. He’d gone looking for her hug. Instead, he found her dancing with headphones on, eyes closed, lost in her short-lived rebellious phase.


He had hidden in the corner, listening. Normally, a song like that would’ve sent him spiraling—into tears, into tantrums, into his secret cocoon. But seeing Nami so happy, he made a choice. For her, he would be stronger. He would not be her burden. He would take his pain like the song said, like it was just a habit, and he would break it.


When the track ended, she had noticed him. Horror on her face—expecting the storm. But he had only smiled. She dropped to her knees, hugged him, kissed his cheek, and he felt vindicated. For once, he’d carried the weight instead of her.


The memory slipped away with the next strum of the guitar.


He went to the bar. “Gin.”


The bartender raised a brow. Folks around here drank bourbon, tequila, beer. Not gin. But he dusted off an old bottle from the back shelf, set it down. “Glass?”


He tore the measurer and spill guard off the gin with his teeth, then knocked back a quarter of the bottle in one pull. Bitter, sharp, clean. He stuffed the small bottle of canada dry into his mouth, poured it down his throat, then spat it back into the gin bottle, mixing it the only way he liked—harsh, brash, warm, and fucking alive.

“Jesus,” the bartender muttered under his breath.

Then he leaned against the bar, eyes half-shut, letting the band play. The music and the gin burned together, not numbing anything, but reminding him he was still here.


WS didn’t leave the gin behind. He carried the bottle into the pit like a banner, the heavy glass slick with sweat. The cover band tore into Breaking the Habit, and the sound cracked something open inside him. It was the first song he’d ever truly heard—back when he was eight, hiding in Nami’s room after reading Frankenstein, terrified he might be the monster. She had been dancing with her headphones on, eyes closed, free. He’d slipped into the corner, listened, and decided he wouldn’t be her burden anymore. That memory burned through him now, but instead of sending him into his cocoon, it drove him forward.


He jumped into the crush of bodies, strangers slamming against him, hugging him, and he hugged them back. Something impossible for the boy he once was. Now, it was pure release—alive, raw, unchained.


The bottle passed from his hand to open mouths. A couple girls tilted their heads, expecting tequila. WS poured, and the way their faces twisted at the bite of gin made him laugh—hard, unrestrained, a sound ripped straight from his chest. Their coughing only fueled the madness of the pit.


He drank from his bottle with a pure joy coming out from just being alive, and the security that he knew he had people who loved him. And that was good enough for now, as he jumped, bumped against others in the mosh pit, and let himself feel lost.


When the music stopped, WS didn’t just walk off. He turned to the sweaty strangers he’d been crashing into, that small tribe of the pit, and with a gleaming smile offered to buy them all a round of beers. It wasn’t the kind of grin anyone expected from a man like him. Some couldn’t even tell if it belonged to a man or a boy.


He was massive—broad shoulders, deep tan from months on the road—but the silvered blues of his eyes cut through the bronze of his skin like shards of ice. In one hand he still clutched the gin bottle, the kind of drink that would’ve dropped most men to their knees, yet he handled it like water.


And that smile—wide, bright, unguarded—made him look, for a fleeting moment, like an innocent child seeing the world for the first time. Happy, unburdened, just glad to be alive.


They’d barely finished the round when a blonde with wavy hair and sharp green eyes stepped up to him, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “What’s a cowboy doing here?” she asked.


Tonight WS had no filters. He wasn’t out to impress—just to get a laugh out of his new pit-brothers and maybe teach this pretty thing, who hadn’t dared throw herself into the chaos of the music, a little humility.


He hadn’t brought his cut; instead, he wore a plain white Texaco T-shirt, his hoodie tied at the waist. It only made his frame look bigger, muscles straining under the cheap cotton. At just sixteen he was already filling out, stronger than three-quarters of the men in the room.


So he leaned in, close enough that she caught his scent of gin and sweat, locked her breath in those magnetic silver-blue eyes, and with that perfect white smile cutting the dim bar lights, dropped it:


“Hey babe, you wanna come back to my motel room and watch some porn on my flat-screen room mirror?”


The pit-crew around him exploded with laughter. Half the girls looked horrified at the filth spilling out of his mouth—but the blonde? She flushed crimson, grabbed his hand, and without a word pulled him out of the bar.


By the time the laughter was still echoing inside, the two of them were already sliding into the back of a cab.


After a few hours in the motel room—his biker buddies asleep nearby—WS was abruptly awakened by the sharp rattle of the door handle. His instincts kicked in. He reached for his gun… only to remember he had left it back with his cut in the shared room.


Sliding silently toward the window, he peeked outside. Four rough-looking Latinos were attempting to force their way in.


Meanwhile, the girl, wide-eyed and terrified, moved quickly. She unbolted the door behind the intruders and, keeping low, slipped past them. She maneuvered around the biggest man, careful not to make a sound, and dashed toward the hallway, still tugging her shirt into place.


Back in the room, the largest of the intruders screamed in WS’s face, “You fucked my woman? Now it’s time to pay back!” They unleashed a few slaps and kicks, more for intimidation than harm.


WS felt the blows but, seasoned by past fights, recognized their intent. The realization hit him—this was a scare, not a killing. A laugh erupted from his chest, loud and unrestrained, echoing against the motel walls, unshaken by the thugs surrounding him.


WS’s laughter echoes through the motel room, loud and unrestrained, catching the attackers off guard. His body rocks slightly as he laughs, a mix of incredulity and amusement. “You really think a couple of slaps and kicks are gonna scare me?” he shouts, his voice dripping with confidence, the grin on his face almost defying them.


The big man hesitates, his rage momentarily disrupted by the sheer audacity of this kid, barely sixteen, standing his ground and laughing at him. WS’s eyes scan the room, agile and alert, calculating, already noting escape routes, weak spots, and the sheer overconfidence of his attackers.


The attackers exchange glances, confused. The bravado, the laughter, the unbothered confidence — it’s not what they expected. WS’s presence alone starts to warp the dynamics; this isn’t a kid to intimidate.


The tension hangs in the air, momentarily suspended, as WS continues to laugh, letting them realize that whatever their intention was, it might not go according to plan.


WS turned to them, eyes cold and amused. “Cheap tricks, huh? Trying to pull the Turk on me? Pfuu… you boys make for terrible actors!”


Before he could react further, a sharp kick slammed into his stomach. The lead thug grabbed his wallet and tried to bolt. “I’m taking your money and your driver’s license,” he barked, voice trembling, “as compensation for… you know.”


Just as they reached the door, movement flashed in the shadows. Six gigantic bikers, all sporting Angel Nomad cuts, stepped into the room, cutting off every escape route. The Latinos froze, knives clattering to the floor.


One of the Nomads approached WS. “Boss… what do we do with this scum?”


WS’s lips curled into a faint smile. The intruders sank to their knees, eyes wide. Guns glinted in the dim light, and for the first time, they realized—they were utterly outmatched. And they were calling him… boss?


WS crouched, gathering the scattered wallets and cash. The four Latinos watched, frozen. He counted the bills—barely six hundred bucks between them. Not worth the trouble, but enough to sting their pride.


He slipped the money quietly to his six bodyguards, who grinned but kept their distance, reading his cues.


“What to do with these clowns?” one of the Nomads asked.


WS leaned back, eyes scanning the trembling intruders. “American citizens… if anything happens to them, they’ll be missed. Sacramento warned me: no excessive heat. We don’t burn bridges we can’t afford to.”


The Latinos looked like they might collapse from relief or fear—it was hard to tell.


“Strip ’em of pride, make ’em remember they can’t touch me,” WS muttered. “Nothing more. They walk out, humiliated, and maybe a story to tell. We don’t need dead men here… just smart enough to know when they’ve lost.”


The Nomads nodded. WS gave a sharp glance: the message was clear. These four would leave alive—and terrified—but the lesson would

The big Latino swallowed hard and muttered, “I… I’m sorry, boss… what did you call that move?”


WS smirked. “The Turk. It’s an old Eastern European trick. Girl seduces a guy, then her husband shows up with backup, scares him, and takes whatever cash he has on hand.”


He leaned in, eyes sharp. “Had I not reacted the way I did, you would have taken me to an ATM, drained my account, and hoped I’d be too embarrassed to press charges. That’s how it’s being used over there today.”


The smaller dude muttered, “We could have done that alone… made real money… not these cheap tricks.”


The boss sighed. “Yeah… I came up with the idea… but I didn’t grasp the full length of the swindle. We underestimated him.”


WS starts to size up the situation. These guys are small-time swindlers, but there’s potential here. He tells one of them to call the nearest chapter while they all sit down, talking in low tones.


He learns their names, how they ended up here, and how they operate. There are eight girls they watch over constantly, plus two other guys. Life on the streets is brutal—gangbangers don’t respect anyone—but these six make sure the girls are never left vulnerable.


WS asks why they don’t recruit. The boss shrugs. “Three of the girls are my cousins. They protect them, don’t abuse them. Not all the girls are in it for money. Some just want to feel safe.”


WS nods, absorbing it. “Yeah… it’s bad out there. Real bad.” He’s seen it himself. Not every girl in the streets chose that life willingly. Some are forced, some are manipulated, addicted, broken down.


The boss leans forward, his voice low but firm. “Take Veronica, the green-eyed one. She was assaulted twice, needles shoved into her arm against her will. Could’ve ended up anywhere, used like trash.” He shakes his head. “That’s why we do this. Not for money, not for power. We watch over them, keep them safe. If we don’t, nobody else will.”


WS listens, absorbing the weight behind the words. These guys aren’t perfect, but their focus is real. They protect the girls—not exploit them. The street is harsh, cruel even, but here is a small bubble where the girls can survive.


The local chapter arrives, eyes widening at the two men guarding the door. Legends, yet here they were. As they enter, their attention falls on the four small-time operators sitting on the floor—yeah, they know who they are. And then, among the nomads, a white, fair-skinned boy with a cigarette, brows furrowed in concern.


WS notices the mostly Latino group and gestures. “Gentlemen, meet these upstanding citizens of the community, operating under your influence. They’ve shown me how things run in San Jose… and I’m disappointed.”


He continues, calm but commanding, “I’ve persuaded them to start paying you guys. Not much—just eight girls, kept off the streets, not generating massive profit—but as the word spreads, more will join. They can handle most things locally, but when it gets tough, perhaps you can reciprocate their efforts, make examples where needed.”


The enforcer leading the four bikers hesitates. “It’s not easy…”


WS shrugs. “California angels are always bitching about money, about being hungry, yet they leave the low-hanging fruit untouched. I’m offering each of these guys around $200 a week—maybe more if Sergio here,” he points to the big Latino, “recruits more using his soft hand approach. They lack numbers, brute force… few are killers, like angels. The five of them can manage this. My boys and I can stay a day or two to set examples, but we must move and report back to Sacramento.”


The local angel freezes, incredulous. “Wait… these legends report to… a pretty boy? Who is he—some Zane or other strong legacy? How does he wield this much pull?”


WS looks at the enforcer, eyes sharp, as if reading his thoughts. “If my bodyguards are willing, they can explain to you who I really am. But…” He steps closer, leaning in to whisper, “Aquellos que lo saben e non lo deberían se quedan al jardín de los placards.”


The enforcer blinks, stares for thirty seconds, then slowly nods as comprehension dawns. WS lets out an exasperated sigh. What the fuck is wrong with Latinos who can’t speak Spanish? Mexico isn’t even five hundred feet from this motel…


He straightens. “No matter. If you truly need to know, just ask one of my guys—they might tell you.”


A deal is quickly struck between Sergio’s crew and the local angels. Normally, this would be negotiated with a single angel, but current circumstances required some flexibility. WS considers the legal ramifications silently: hopefully this doesn’t morph into a racketeering charge. Not likely—Sergio’s crew seems stable, and racketeering usually applies to legal businesses leveraged by criminal influence. Those who operate fully outside the law lose that protection.


Unless… classified as whistleblowers. But real whistleblowers are honest, not criminals feeding evidence against other criminal groups. One day, he muses, the Supreme Court might decide if hearsay from criminals can be used as proof. If they allow it, the crime world collapses—but so too might the justice system itself.


Two days later, back at the motel, WS is taking a piss when a stabbing pain rips through his entire body. He doubles over, crying like a little kid. Fuck… it burns…


He looks down. Instead of the golden stream he had acquired during his endless rides across the Southwest, it’s streaked with pink. Is that… blood? Panic spikes. He grabs some water from the sink and tries to rinse, but the agony only intensifies.


Stumbling out of the bathroom, WS dials 911 and hails a cab to the nearest hospital, muttering through clenched teeth. Every step is a reminder of the pain that pulses through him. At the emergency desk, he struggles to explain between tears and flushed embarrassment, feeling every bit the ridiculous mess of a man-child.


After a rapid assessment, the nurse delivers the verdict: urinary tract infection. WS swears under his breath, disbelief etched across his face. How the hell did this happen?


He had already put three gangs in check, establishing respect—or fear—over Sergio’s turf. Technically, it wasn’t just turf; it was the girls he had protected. He was doing good, necessary work, and now some microscopic bacteria was laying him flat. Life had a twisted sense of humor, apparently.



WS runs the math in his head. Are Sergio’s girls… dirty? Panic flares as he pulls out his phone, recalling the drugs and waking up next to two girls in Phoenix. Fuck… when they said Phoenix girls are the dirtiest, I imagined something different.


He downs another pill of antibiotics, rubbing himself with ointment, and winces. If someone saw me now, they’d think I was jerking off while half-mast. Grimacing, he calls Sergio. “Send Veronica to the hospital. Make sure all her partners know I might have gifted her something she didn’t ask for.”


Locked in his room for another day, his bodyguards hover, worried.


WS sat stiff in the clinic chair, relief still fresh from the clean blood test. Nothing serious—just a urinary infection. Antibiotics, ointment, some bloodwork. Scary, but manageable.


Then the nurse handed him the bill.
He looked down. Blinked. Looked again.


“This is a poor county,” he muttered, voice cracking between outrage and disbelief. “How the hell can you charge this much for a bottle of antibiotics, a smear of ointment, and a blood test? My mom’s a doctor—her patients are richer than this town, and she’d never gouge them like this.”


He slapped the paper against his thigh, exasperated.
“Do I look like someone born wealthy—or like I just robbed a bank to afford this?”


His bikers glanced at each other, deadpan.
“Yes you do.”


A half-second of silence—then they broke, bursting into raucous laughter that turned heads in the waiting room.


The nurse at the counter nearly dropped her pen, staring at them like they were insane. An old woman clutched her purse tighter. A young dad sitting with his kid smirked, shaking his head as if he’d just overheard the dumbest bar joke in the world.


WS went red, growling at his crew to shut the hell up while they only howled harder, slapping each other’s shoulders.

 

[Warscared]

The laughter was still bouncing off the sterile clinic walls when WS caught something over his shoulder. An old man—grey, stooped, with trembling hands—sat across from two men in slick suits. The kind of hospital executives who wore their ties like nooses around other people’s necks.


He didn’t mean to listen. He didn’t want to. But their voices carried.


“Sign it,” one of the suits pressed, shoving a folder toward the man. “Six hundred thousand for the apartments. Market says it’s worth one-point-one. Take the deal, and we keep your wife’s treatment going.”


The old man shook his head, voice cracking. “That’s theft. You’re preying on me—using my wife’s pain to rob me blind!”


“Careful, old man,” the second suit leaned in, smirking. “Refuse now, and the offer drops to four-fifty.”


The old man’s face went pale. His pen hovered over the paper. “I… I have no choice.”


That was enough. WS stood. He strode over, broad shadow swallowing their corner of the waiting room.


The suits snapped their heads toward him, annoyance first, then caution when they saw the cut on his shoulders.


“What’s this?” one sneered, bluffing bravado. “None of your business. Pay your bill and get lost before we call the cops.”


WS smiled—too calm. “Yeah. Call them. I’d like to report two worthless pieces of shit extorting a dying woman’s husband.”


One of the execs flinched, but the other raised a hand like he might swing. He froze when WS’s bikers shifted behind him, leather creaking, eyes flat.


The old man rushed out the words, as if desperate to make sense of the madness: “They—they’re forcing me. My wife’s cancer treatments… already a hundred twenty thousand in debt. They want my apartments. Everything I’ve saved for. If I don’t sign, they’ll stop treating her.”


WS’s smile thinned into steel. “Well then… if you have to sell…” He stepped closer, eyes drilling into the suits. “…sell it to me. And fuck these bastards.”


The old man’s lip quivered. “But… I still need them to treat her.”


WS didn’t hesitate. He snatched the paperwork right out of one executive’s hand. The man lunged, but one of WS’s bikers let out a growl so low it rumbled like a pit bull on a chain. The suit stumbled back, spine snapping straight.


WS flipped through the medical records, eyes narrowing. His mom’s voice echoed in his head—long talks over dinner about malpractice, wrong prescriptions, the quiet corruption of hospitals. His jaw clenched.


“These treatments,” he muttered, each word a blade, “shouldn’t have cost more than fifty-five grand. And here…” He jabbed the paper with his finger. “…you’re dosing her with drugs meant for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. But she has Hodgkin’s. You’re not curing her—you’re killing her.”


The executives went pale.


WS shoved the papers back into the old man’s hands. “Get a lawyer. Sue the fuck out of them. Half this cocktail’s been blacklisted for her case.”


The man’s face crumpled. “But… how… the bills—”


WS pulled out his card. Swiped it at the counter before they could laugh in his face. The machine beeped: Payment accepted.


He slammed down a fat roll of bills—twenty-five thousand, peeled straight from his stash—and pressed it into the old man’s hand. “Take her. Get her into a real hospital where they won’t murder her for profit. And hire a lawyer.”


The suits stood frozen, mouths open but no sound coming out.


WS’s grin was sharp as a knife. “Now get the fuck out of my sight before I really lose my patience.”


The old man’s deed felt heavy in WS’s hands, heavier than the iron grips he’d broken in the pits. Four apartments. Solid brick, no termites, no bullshit. Each worth at least three hundred grand. Total value? One-point-two million.


He needed four-fifty.


The problem? He didn’t have the cash. Not even close. But the hospital’s scam still burned in his chest like the infection pills hadn’t touched. No way he’d let them win.


So, he walked into the one den worse than bikers, worse than gangsters, worse than hospital suits.


Bankers.


His bodyguards stayed outside, leaning against their hogs in the parking lot, smoking, glaring, scaring off anyone who even thought about entering. Customers paused, then decided tomorrow was a much better day to deal with their money. Inside, the tellers shuffled nervously, eyes flicking to the glass doors like they were waiting for the building to get stormed.


WS didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Get me the manager.”


At first, the manager sent excuses: “busy with clients,” “important paperwork,” “come back another day.” But attrition wore people down fast. Especially when half a dozen restless bikers were prowling outside, practically clogging the branch’s arteries.


Eventually, the manager cracked and came out from his glass office, tie slightly askew, fake smile plastered across his face. “What seems to be the matter, sir?”


WS dropped the deed onto his desk with a dull thunk. “I need four hundred fifty thousand. The building’s worth one-point-two. Collateral’s good enough.”


The manager blinked, lips pursing. “We’ll need your credit history. Proof of income. Identification. Collateral alone isn’t enough. Regulations, you understand.”


WS just stared at him. Cold. Unblinking. Like he was daring the man to keep hiding behind rules.


The silence stretched. The manager shifted in his seat, tugged at his collar. The stare drilled into his forehead. Sweat started to pearl at the edges of his hairline.


Finally, he cracked, voice dropping low, conspiratorial. “Look… maybe we can expedite. Forget the usual checks. All I need is an ID and a signature.”


WS felt his stomach sink. ID. Signature. Right. He was sixteen. Fuck.


He stood abruptly. “Where’s the washroom?”


The manager waved vaguely toward the back.


In the stall, WS dropped onto the toilet lid, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He couldn’t sign as himself. If this got checked, his whole house of cards would collapse.


He pulled out his wallet, flipping through the mess inside. Receipts. A folded photo. Then his fingers hit the familiar plastic.


Jack Brown.


The fake driver’s license. He’d used it to get work before. Never tested it this high. But hell—wasn’t this what it was for?


He stared at the card for a long moment, then grinned despite himself. “Jack Brown, huh? Guess you just bought some real estate.”


He marched back into the manager’s office, laid down the ID, and signed the deed with a flourish: Jack Brown.


The manager looked at the card. Then at WS. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. He stamped the paperwork, slid it into a folder.


“Congratulations, Mr. Brown. The loan will be processed immediately.”


WS leaned back in the chair, tapping the printed flyers against the banker’s polished desk. Apartments for Rent — $1000/month. Simple, bold.


The manager skimmed the paper and let a smile creep in.
“Interesting. You know, the average rent around here is sixteen hundred. Yours are larger too — proper family-sized. I could put these into our REIT portfolio, pay you in stock. You wouldn’t need to lift a finger again.”


It was meant to sound tempting. But WS’s eyes hardened.
“REITs are stealing people’s right to a home. Commercial property? Fine. Shopping malls, offices, casinos — sure. But not houses. Not places families need. You strip that away, they got nothing.”


For a moment, Nojiko’s tired face flashed through his mind — the night she clutched the deed to their house like it was a lifeline, finally able to exhale after years of scraping. That was the first time she’d had enough peace to really see him. He wasn’t about to let someone else rob families of that. Not on his watch.


So he stood, gave the banker a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Thanks for the offer. Not for me.”


He dropped five grand into the account — a cushion for mishaps, nothing more — and walked out with a new banking app on his phone. Outside, the bikers straightened as he pushed open the doors.


This wasn’t just about numbers anymore. It was about making sure no one could pull the rug out from under people the way they once tried to do to his.


On the way out, one of the bikers elbowed him with a grin.
“So what now, boss? You becoming a landlord? Gonna let the girls pay rent in trade?”


The pack cracked up. WS just pulled off his hoodie and cut, folding them neatly under his arm.
“Go raise some hell. I’ve got grown-up business to handle.”


The guys looked a little miffed — until they remembered the last month. Over three hundred grand cleared, split seven ways, plus all the dope they could carry whenever WS cleaned out a rival stash or click house. Nobody had ever made them money like this kid did.


WS ducked into a shop, bought a crisp button-up, and walked straight into the police station. The desk sergeant squinted at him.
“What’s a kid like you doing here?”


“Just came into an inheritance,” WS said, deadpan. “Figured I should put it to work.” He pinned his Apartments for Rent — $1000/month flyer on the bulletin board.


Two hours later, he was in the back of a patrol car, being chauffeured to his own property. The cops walked through the apartments, whistling low. By the time they left, WS had bank account numbers in his phone and signed tenants on paper. Two couples moved in immediately, families in tow; two single officers claimed the last two units for next week. The rent transfers would cover the $3,000 loan payment easy.


Three days later, some goons the hospital execs hired tried to vandalize the building. They got themselves arrested on the spot. With cops as tenants, the place was bulletproof. The execs landed in hotter water than WS could’ve scripted.


But the real prize?


Three weeks down the line, a pack of riders came pounding on the door, asking for a “Jack Brown” — even had his fake license number. The second they saw the cop families living there, they bolted. Four of them had open warrants and got picked up within the week.


WS leaned back when the news hit, grinning. Obadiah always taught him how to “mine the field.” But this? This was an entire minefield detonating under his enemies.

 

[Warscared]

For the next two weeks, WS and his boys moved north, following blueprints of buildings like hunters with a map to their prey. Every one to two days, they struck MS houses, each hit precise, deliberate, and brutal. WS unleashed himself, letting the rage and skill he had honed over months take over, but his six bodyguards stayed close, silent and vigilant, keeping him from going too far, cleaning the scenes, and ensuring no innocents were harmed.


By the second house, he stopped counting the dead, letting himself relish the violence with dead eyes, feeding on the fury of avenging the girls—girls who had been hooked on brown shit or black tar heroin, remnants of the epidemics of the 80s and 2000s that he had only ever read about. Every hit pulled at the dangerous lust of killing within him, the adrenaline tangling with his purpose, but the bodyguards were there, always restraining, supporting, and cleaning up, reminding him why he did it.


On the last strike, he found pot, and it struck him as strange—these guys had a route for heavy drugs, smuggled into jails to feed the Angels network, but pot? It didn’t belong. His fists twitched at the familiar pull of violence, the temptation to indulge in rage, but a hand on his shoulder from one of his guards brought him back. They had kept him grounded all along, letting him be the avenger but preventing him from losing himself completely. He ordered the clean-up, the pot rerouted, and with grim satisfaction, he realized that while he might not be able to stop the epidemic entirely, he was making sure the assholes paid, every single time.


Two days after their northern sweep, WS and his boys were back at the motel, exhausted but restless. For the past two weeks, they had moved systematically, hitting MS houses every one or two days. Blueprints in hand, WS went in alone when necessary, striking with lethal precision while his six bodyguards monitored the perimeter, cleaned the scenes, and kept him from falling into the lust of uncontrolled violence. He had lost count of the bodies after the second house, simply reveling in the grim work of avenging the girls—those who had been hooked on brown shit or black tar heroin, substances he had only read about in stories of the 80s and 00s.


On the last hit, he discovered a stash of pot. It was odd—heavy drugs were usually funneled into jails and the Angels’ prison network, but pot had a different route. WS ordered it cleaned up and stored separately, noting the difference without much thought.


Then came the call. The Los Angeles Angels had been contacted by Calle 80, who were pressing to find out who had hit the MS house. Calle 80 had brute force but no special ops skill—they were strong, but unsophisticated. Immediately, suspicion fell on the Angels, though no proof existed. The LA chapters, spread across five divisions, denied involvement but got the word out to ensure discipline and prevent panic. Sacramento intervened quietly, confirming, “They are ours. Do not touch. But here is an enforcer’s number if you need to contact them.”


A few hours later, the news reached WS: the cartels, impressed by the efficiency and precision of his strike, were offering him a reward for the job—but they also demanded their pot back. He could sense the trap from a mile away. The reward was tempting, but accepting it could expose his team and compromise the operation. WS smiled faintly; the cartels had no idea who they were dealing with, and he intended to keep it that way.


WS turned to Frank, eyes narrowing. “So this pot we got… it’s still stashed?”


“Yes, boss,” Frank confirmed.


“Good. Contact the LA chapter… one of them. Have them take the reward, but warn them—this smells off. They should either do it publicly or roll with heavy guns.”


Frank nodded. WS exhaled, tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “We rest for three days. After that, we keep moving. MS will learn that stepping on the wrong feet… gets them stepped on.”


The team dispersed, aware of the calm before the next storm. WS’s mind, however, was already calculating the next moves—each step measured, each strike precise, keeping the chaos contained and the trap unseen.


Meanwhile, WS checked the online reviews of his ill-fated novel draft, Stockholm Syndrome – The Isekai.


The kindest review said:

“This shit ain’t even bad enough to become good.”

The rest were a firing squad:

• “So… the protagonist falls in love with their kidnapper, dies, and then gets reincarnated as… a mop? Bro, seek therapy.”
• “Reads like a hostage situation for the reader.”
• “Not even Wattpad would take this.”
• “I think I caught a disease just scrolling.”
• “This is less isekai and more isthistrash.”
• “Plot twist: the real Stockholm Syndrome is me finishing this.”
• “I’ve seen ransom notes with better character arcs.”
• “Feels like the FBI should be reading this, not me.”

• “If boredom had a word count, this would be it.”
• “Congratulations, you invented cringe fanfic about a cash register.”
• “Plot holes so big you could smuggle a cartel shipment through them.”
• “I want the hours I spent reading this back. I could’ve learned knitting.”
• “My dog walked across my keyboard once and the story was better than this.”
• “This isn’t even isekai. It’s just a bad dream where I keep turning pages.”
• “This made me root for the hospital machine to unplug itself.”

• “I lost brain cells reading this. If I get cancer, I’m suing the author.”
• “This isn’t an isekai, it’s a cry for help disguised as bad prose.”
• “I laughed once. Then I realized I wasn’t supposed to. Now I need therapy.”
• “The Stockholm Syndrome is me finishing this garbage instead of walking away.”
• “If reincarnation is real, I hope I don’t come back in a world where this book exists.”
• “The villain was heroin, the plot was fentanyl, and I overdosed in chapter two.”
• “This is the kind of story dictators make their prisoners read to break them.”
• “Honestly, the author should be charged with war crimes under the Geneva Convention.”

WS leaned back, rubbed his temples, and muttered:
“Guess I don’t have a future as a writer…”


Right at the bottom of the review thread, buried under the mountain of hate, was the final comment:

“Bro, I showed this to my goldfish and it jumped out of the tank. 10/10, would not recommend unless you hate your pets.”

WS actually burst out laughing at that one.
“Hell,” he muttered, “maybe comedy’s my only genre left.”

ws ponders wtf just happened... his this how people behave when there is not the danger of being punched in the face?
guess i better stick to places where i can punch idiots in the face!

He had uploaded it with shaky pride, waiting for the dopamine hit of anonymous strangers calling him a genius. Instead, the reviews rolled in like a firing squad:

• “If this is an isekai, please send me to a world where this book doesn’t exist.”
• “Reads like it was written by a horny 12-year-old locked in a basement with only Wikipedia for company.”
• “This story kidnapped my attention, held it hostage, and tortured it. Maybe that’s the ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ part?”
• “If I could trade places with the protagonist, I would — just so I’d be in a world where the author wasn’t.”
• “Congratulations, you’ve invented a new genre: War Crimes Literature.”
• “Every paragraph felt like being waterboarded with Mountain Dew.”
• “Delete this. Not from the site. From existence.”

The worst one wasn’t even funny. Just a quiet dagger:

• “Kid, you’re not a writer. You never will be. Stop embarrassing yourself.”

He didn’t rage, didn’t clap back, didn’t even tell himself they don’t get it.
He just stared at the glowing screen until the words stopped being words and started being a wall.
A wall that told him one thing, over and over:


Stay out. This world isn’t for you.

 

[Warscared]

WS pulls the collar of his shirt straight, letting the samurai cut of his hair frame his sharp features, and steps out into the mid-morning sun. Coffee in hand, he scans the streets, weighing the problem like a chessboard. Cartels in the U.S.—no base, no obvious targets, just a shadow network using Call80 as their proxy. Threaten Call80? Sure, maybe they’d flinch, but would that be enough to make the real players back off? He sips the coffee, bitter but grounding, and flips open The Plague by Camus.


“This is good,” he mutters under his breath. “Might as well buy the whole bibliography. Might as well drown in the knowledge like a pig.” He lets his gaze drift briefly, remembering the stranger safely back home. A thought of fleeting warmth washes over him before the memory of a scarred face jerks him back into focus.


From the speakers, Jimmie Allen & Noah Cyrus’s This Is Us begins to play. He tilts his head. Moments of intimacy… must be nice, he thinks, letting the music drift around him while his mind reels back to strategy. The pages of Camus blur slightly as he forces his concentration back to the book. Coffee, literature, and the cold calculus of taking control—this is his current rhythm.


He flips a page, and the world of plague, human weakness, and silent resilience mirrors, in an odd way, his own war on the invisible cartels. Quiet moments, strategic thinking, and just enough nostalgia to remind him that even a predator has room for reflection.

WS barely looks up from his book as four street thugs, their arms marked with faded CALLE 80 tattoos, swagger toward him. One leans in, rough voice cutting through the air: “¿Qué estás leyendo, chico?”


WS doesn’t even lift his eyes from the book. In a slow, deliberate tone, he replies in Spanish:


“Camus… pero por la manera en que hablan, es algo demasiado complicado para que lo entiendan.”


The four Calle 80 thugs pause, caught between offense and confusion, trying to gauge if he’s mocking them or serious. WS just goes back to reading, letting the silence do the heavy work.


WS looks up slowly, his silver-blue eyes glinting. In calm but deadly Spanish, he says:
“Si este libro tiene que ser apartado, voy a tener que enseñarles a pelear… pero por ahora, déjenme disfrutarlo en paz en medio de esta plaza.”
He doesn’t move an inch, just lets the words hang in the air. The thug’s finger trembles on the cover; the others shift nervously. WS leans back slightly, smiling faintly, as if daring anyone to challenge him.


The thugs glanced at each other nervously, trying to mask it with loud chatter. “¿Lee francés… será inteligente o estúpido? ¡Y nosotros sin un centavo para cerveza!”


WS frowned. This was not worth the trouble. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his fat wallet, and accidentally revealed its heft. He flipped a crisp $100 bill at them.


“Esto es todo. Desaparezcan,” he said flatly.


The thugs froze for a moment, whispering in Spanish among themselves. One, greedier than the rest, leaned forward. “Déjame ver eso… tu cartera se ve interesante.”


At that exact moment, WS’s demeanor shifted. His jaw tightened, eyes sharp, and he tilted his head back toward the sky. He muttered in perfect French:


“Sacrebleu, ce type d’idiot… Pardonne-moi, Père en Ciel, pour les choses que j’ai dû faire !”


The plaza went silent. The thugs stopped whispering and talking loudly, unsure if he was joking or about to explode. WS snapped his wallet shut, shoved it back in his pocket, and returned to his book as if nothing had happened.


The tallest thug finally muttered something in Spanish, gesturing for the others to back off. WS didn’t even look up. His warning had been given. The plaza, the tattoos, the sun—all faded into the background as he returned to Camus, the shift in language leaving no doubt: he was serious now.



WS returned to the motel and glanced at his six bikers, who had the four street thugs beaten and tied up. One of them muttered, “Two of these guys aren’t American. If you want, we can skin them alive.” WS shook his head, amused. Not today.


He leaned back and ran the numbers in his head. The week had been absurdly profitable. Between drugs, guns, and cash, each biker had walked away with roughly $160,000. Compare that to Texas last month, where the same crew had made about $300,000 per person — but that had taken an entire month of careful operations. In California, in just one week, they had cleaned up the newly appearing MS-13 houses, struck fast and hard while the Riders tried to reestablish their balance, and managed to leave the neighborhoods under control.


The bikers weren’t just loyal; they were motivated. WS had paid them extremely well, yes, but more importantly, the work was efficient, clear, and lethal — and the streets were under control. In Texas, operations were slower, every two or three days, and designed to intimidate the cartels across the border. Here in California, the objective wasn’t just fear — it was cleaning up the new MS-13 spots before they became entrenched, while maintaining the delicate balance with the Riders. The money was just a bonus.


He smiled, observing his team. Even on a “day off,” they had run cover, tied up thugs, and cleaned up his messes. Not because he asked them to, but because he had structured the operations so that following him was both safe and wildly profitable. They trusted him, feared him, and most importantly, knew that loyalty paid — literally.


WS shook his head. Texas and California are two different worlds. One month in Texas versus one week here in California — this is why they follow me anywhere. Not just for the money, but for the system, the efficiency, and the fact that they know their boss won’t leave them exposed. He smiled again. “Alright, enjoy your weekend,” he said. The bikers relaxed. They’d earned it.


WS was about to tell his bikers to cut the thugs loose — it was their weekend, they’d earned it — when something caught his eye. The Calle 80 tattoos.


He froze. Slowly, he turned to the four guys, his eyes narrowing. “Well… chicos, nosotros no somos de Saqui, como lo deben tener notado, ¿por eso no tomamos una cerveza y nos conocemos mejor?”


The room went silent for a beat. The bikers stiffened, glancing between WS and the captives. WS’s tone wasn’t threatening — not yet — but it carried that quiet weight of someone who could make a mistake cost a man everything. The message was clear: he knew more than they thought.


The thugs swallowed, eyes darting nervously. They’d walked into a trap bigger than they imagined — and WS was just starting to remind them of it.


WS settled back with the thugs, a few beers in front of them. Alcohol loosened tongues, and he wanted answers.


“So,” he began, swirling his drink, “what’s your connection to the cartels?”


The guys looked stunned, exchanging glances. Slowly, one spoke, earnest and careful. “They… pay us in drugs for information. When they need a crew moved north, they use us as scouts, guides… we get them where they need to be.”


“Scouts and guides,” WS repeated, letting the words sink in. “And… guns?”


The reply was almost casual. “Normally, yes we also provide them with guns.”


That made WS pause. Of course. The Angels were the real number one gun providers in the region. He let the thought roll around in his head.


“Eat,” he said, gesturing to the DoorDash delivery arriving at the table. Once they were distracted, he stepped outside, pulling out his phone. He called Sacramento.


“Can we, the Angels, control the shipments?” WS asked, keeping his voice low. “Check where specific weapons were delivered, to which gangs, and in what locations?”


“No way,” Sacramento replied immediately. “ATF would tear us apart if we had that info.”


WS’s mind raced. The thugs arriving without guns would feel naked, desperate to arm themselves as soon as possible. He needed that.


“How many Angel chapters are around the border?” he asked. “Call them. Start compiling a list of all automatic weapons—normally those used by the Mexican army. Trace them back six months. Track which strikes were carried out in the last six months. I think… I might have just found a way to follow the cartel’s strike teams.”


He hung up, staring at the horizon, already calculating the moves that would let him turn their own logistics into a map he could read. The game was about to change.


Meanwhile, WS returned to the Calle 80 guys. He leaned against the motel wall, speaking with a quiet authority.


“Trent, get the pot,” he said. “Guys, I’m about to make your click 5,000 richer. Call some of your homies—you’ve got a meeting with some of your own friends.”


He glanced at the four thugs, letting the weight of his words settle. “The cartels promised 30,000 for the return of their pot. Originally, we were going to give it to a chapter, but this offer has ‘trap’ written all over it.”


Trent nodded, understanding the plan. WS continued, “Leave it inside a rented van in a parking lot. Keys under the back right wheel. You call your compadres—they’ll deliver the drugs. If they survive, they can keep 5,000—but they must visit all Angel chapters and gift each one 5,000. Not much in the grand scheme, but it’s symbolic.”


He shook his head slightly. “Fuck… me and the boys made 160,000 from hitting these drug dens that have been popping all over. And I mean each of us. Safer than robbing a bank—at least as far as the law is concerned. Not clean money, but neither is yours.”


WS scanned their faces as he asked, “You work for peanuts, right? How much per week does each member in your gang get? 300 bucks, perhaps?”


The expression on their faces told him everything. “Not even that much?” he muttered. “Isn’t California like the fifth richest country in the world if it were independent?”


He began doing the math quietly to himself, realizing why street gangs relied on sheer numbers. Too many mouths to feed, too much competition from MS selling drugs… not much left to earn.

 

[Warscared]

Scene – Motel Room, Cigarette Smoke, and Warrants

Trent is pacing, restless. Douglas is trying to look calm, but the way he keeps tapping his boot against the dresser betrays his nerves. Both men are hiding something, and WS can smell it before they even open their mouths.


Trent (grumbling):
“Back east… they got my name on a paper. Armed robbery, some bullshit. I was young.”


Douglas (shrugs, eyes narrowed):
“Same. They’ll hang it over us forever. Warrant’s out. You know how it is.”


WS leans back in his chair, shirt half-open, hair tied up in that samurai knot. He lights a cigarette, exhales slow, and doesn’t answer right away. He’s thinking — really thinking. The way he always did when Nami used to rant about her law professors, or when Nojiko pulled out some medical ethics case over dinner.


WS (quietly, almost to himself):
“Dinner table arguments… I remember them like scripture. Law isn’t about justice, it’s about angles.”


Trent frowns.
“What the hell are you talking about?”


WS taps the ash off his cigarette, eyes sharp now.


WS:
“I’m saying, warrants are only chains if you let them be. Think. A bank job with guns? That’s a nightmare on paper — mandatory time, no judge wants to touch it. But… restitution, clean letters, the right lawyers, and suddenly you’re not public enemy. You’re just a stupid kid who grew up.”


Douglas smirks.
“You think some suit can make that go away?”


WS (grinning now):
“No, I think the right suit and the right pressure can. Lawyers for the letter of the law. Money for the cracks in it. Influence for the people who like to pretend they’re impartial. That’s the game. You don’t fight the law — you tilt it.”


Trent shakes his head.
“You sound like you’re outta your mind, brother.”


WS (leans forward, eyes cold but steady):
“No. I sound like a man planning. You two got warrants? Fine. Then we find the angles. Judges who don’t like to fight windmills. Prosecutors who like carrots better than whips. A little media light here, a political string pulled there… Next thing you know, those papers don’t mean shit.”


He leans back again, smoke curling around him, and for a second the room is silent. Then WS chuckles.


WS:
“Nami always said I never listened. Guess she was wrong.”



Scene – Tokyo Café, Midnight Call to Malachi

The little café is nearly empty, only the sound of jazz on the radio and the clink of WS’s coffee cup. He stares at the foam for a long moment before pulling out his phone, scrolling through, and finally calling.


Malachi (answering, tired):
“Warscared? Where the hell are you calling me from? The line’s fuzzy.”


WS (grinning faintly):
“Japan, Malachi. Quiet streets, clean air, and coffee strong enough to make you see ghosts. But I didn’t call to talk tourism.”


Malachi (snorts):
“Figures. So what’s this about?”


WS flicks ash into the tray, lowering his voice like he’s confessing to the moon.


WS:
“Trent and Douglas Anderson. Those two… they’ve got warrants, right? Old cases, East Coast?”


There’s silence on the line. Malachi exhales, suspicious already.


Malachi:
“Yeah. Armed robbery. Both of them flagged. If the cops ID them, they’re done. Five years minimum, probably more. Why? Where are you going with this?”


WS:
“I remembered something. Back when I wrote that tutorial, it was aimed at angels who were already inside the system — locked up, trying to twist their way out. But what if we used those tricks earlier? Before they ever touch a cell?”


Malachi (confused, leaning forward at his desk):
“You mean re-opening their processes? Warscared… those cases are cold on paper but hot in reality. You can’t just—”


WS (cuts him off, sharp but calm):
“Perhaps. That’s the word. Perhaps. I’m not saying it’s guaranteed, but if we pull the right levers, line up restitution, apologies, maybe some carefully crafted media light… they stop being armed robbers. They start being fools who grew up. Five years becomes probation. A warrant becomes… an old story.”


Malachi rubs his temple, skeptical.


Malachi:
“You’re playing with fire, kid. Even asking for those files could raise eyebrows. Where’d you get this idea?”


WS chuckles softly, leaning back.


WS:
“Dinner with my family. Law over noodles and medicine over rice. I listened more than they thought. Get me the files, Malachi. Send them over email. You trust me, don’t you?”


Malachi (pauses, then sighs):
“I trust you’re insane. But fine… I’ll dig. Don’t make me regret it.”


WS (grinning, eyes flashing):
“Relax. You won’t regret it. I don’t waste my time, and I don’t waste yours. Just think of it as the start of a new chapter. Perhaps.”


The call clicks off. WS sets the phone down, opens The Plague again, but the words blur. He’s already drafting blueprints in his head — blueprints for bending the law before it ever clamps down.

Scene – WS Lays Out the Plan

The motel room stank of smoke and stale beer, the bikers slouched in half-broken chairs. Trent was rolling a cigarette, Douglas cleaning a knife on his jeans, both of them listening with that wary mix of respect and suspicion that WS always drew out of people.


Warscared closed the folder with a snap and looked up at them, his eyes glinting under the dim lamp.


WS:
“Section 934 — firearms enhancement. That’s the thorn. Guns on the table turn a stupid robbery into five years minimum. Take that out of the picture, suddenly you’re just kids who made a mistake. Stupid youth. Stupid choices.”


He leaned forward, almost smiling.


WS:
“I already wrote the apology letters. Don’t worry — I made you sound human. You didn’t do it for your grandmother, but hey — your grandmother was in the hospital back then, so I spiced it up. Family hardship, returning from service, trying to help… that sort of thing. Lucky for you, Douglas, you’ve got that commendation. If it wasn’t for this mess, maybe you’d even have had a medal. That’ll play well.”


Trent frowned.
Trent:
“You forged letters for us?”


WS (shrugs, almost amused):
“I corrected your grammar. Big difference.”


He pulled out a fresh pack of bills from his jacket and slapped it on the table.


WS:
“You’ve now got two new lawyers. They golf with the DA and Judge Bradford every Sunday. Stein is technically assigned to your case, and yes, he’s a hardass… but maybe we find a workaround. Judges get recused all the time. Personal reasons, conflict of interest… things happen.”


Douglas raised an eyebrow.
Douglas:
“And what’s this gonna cost us?”


Warscared tapped the bills like a schoolteacher underlining a lesson.


WS:
“Hundred and twenty thousand. From last week’s jobs. Easy, right? Wire it to the lawyers. Out of that, fifty goes directly into restitution — the bank gets their money back. Another fifty… well, that becomes a donation. Alderman Michaelson likes veterans, very pro-service, and he just happens to be friends with both the DA and Bradford. You see how the pieces start to move?”


The two bikers exchanged a look — nervous, but not skeptical anymore.


WS (leaning back, voice dropping almost to a whisper):
“You’ll look like men who stumbled but stood back up. Veterans who just want to re-enlist, give back, start fresh. That narrative can carry weight, trust me. If Stein won’t see it? Then we make him irrelevant. There’s always another way around.”


He lit a cigarette, the match flaring between his fingers, his eyes catching the glow.


WS:
“But the first step is simple. Money wired, letters delivered, donations made. The rest… is a chess game. And you boys? You just became pawns worth saving.”


Three weeks had passed. The motel room smelled of stale smoke and leftover takeout; WS leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming the table. Judge Stein had refused every single motion to reopen the case. Not a hint of compromise.


WS (muttering to himself):
“Fucking old crank… three weeks. City hall, DA, letters, donations — nothing. Elections in six months, fifty grand to charity — that’s votes in the bank. Hell, it’s practically printing ballots.”


He pulled out his phone. Social media. Contacts. A few journalists he knew were hungry for a story about “stubborn justice vs. veterans seeking redemption.”


Within an hour, emails were sent. Interviews were arranged. Trent and Douglas were coached, their apologies honed until they didn’t sound like excuses but genuine contrition. The first few interviews were rough — stammering, too defensive. By the fifth, WS had them looking like true victims of circumstance, grateful for a second chance.


WS (leaning back, satisfied):
“Old man Stein… you’re supposed to be aiming for the Supreme Court. Conservatives about to take Congress. You can’t be seen as anti-veteran. Not now. Not ever. You budge, or you risk everything.”


He shook his head, a smirk forming.
“Stubborn as hell… but everyone has a breaking point.”


WS freezes, the phone heavy in his hand. Nadjia Stein, smiling, laughing, drink in hand, tagged in Nami’s social media story.


WS (muttering to himself):
“Fuck… no. Not one of Nami’s friends. That’s… that’s a line I don’t cross. Doesn’t matter how stubborn the old man is.”


He leans back, running a hand through his hair, his mind racing. The Photoshop threat, the direct approach—everything he’d considered suddenly feels like walking a tightrope over a pit of federal charges.


The old judge is immovable. Nadjia is untouchable in this context. WS exhales sharply. He can feel the sting of frustration, but also the gears turning.


WS (thinking):
“Okay… so direct pressure? Dead end. Social manipulation? Nope. Can’t touch her, can’t use her. So… what can I do?”


He looks around the motel room, eyes landing on his six bodyguards sprawled across the couches, still buzzing from the last week’s hits. Maybe brute force isn’t the answer here. Maybe… patience. Strategy. Chess, not checkers.


He swipes through Nadjia’s posts one more time, analyzing, measuring, weighing risk versus reward.


WS (whispering):
“Stubborn old man… you just became my puzzle. And I love puzzles.”


He closes the phone, stands, grabs his samurai-styled shirt, and mutters to himself:
“Time to go out for coffee and figure out how to corner a judge without touching his daughter.”


WS (thinking):
“Fine… Stein’s a dead end for now. But six months, elections come, he gets picked for the Supreme Court… then he has to drop these cases. Timing is everything.”


He leans back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing: the game isn’t lost—it’s just deferred. Patience becomes the weapon. Every step until then is about preserving his position, keeping Nadjia untouched, and making sure nothing pushes Stein into a corner that would harm anyone he cares about.


It’s not about immediate victory—it’s about the long con, and WS knows he’s already three moves ahead.


He shrugs and mutters to himself:
“Dead end… fine. But I’ll win anyway. Just… wait six months.”


WS sits the three bikers down, the quiet hum of the motel barely masking the city outside. He hesitates, then blurts out, “I need to be honest… I don’t understand how this all looks. I never expected anyone to read it like I was pulling a fast one on California, on the mother house, or on any of you. I’ve been trying to keep things balanced, fair…”


The three men lean back, exchanging glances. Then the first one speaks, voice low but firm: “Kid… we never even considered it could look like that. You’re doing all the work, risking your ass in the dens, taking the hits… and yet you split the profits equally. That ain’t greed. If it were about money, you wouldn’t share it.”


The others nod in agreement. “We got your back, kid,” the biggest says, a rare smile breaking his face. “And fuck, I wish I had your skills. Infiltrating dens, moving in the shadows, cleaning up without getting caught—you make it look effortless. Don’t ever doubt yourself in front of us. We know what you’re doing, and it ain’t about greed.”


WS exhales slowly, a strange mix of relief and renewed focus settling over him. His crew sees the work, sees the fairness—and the loyalty solidifies around him.

 

[Warscared]

WS sits back on the motel balcony, staring at his notes and the scraps of intel collected over the past week. He traces the flow of weapons, the hit patterns, and the sightings of cartel-affiliated strike teams. Slowly, the pattern begins to emerge: the cartels rotate their teams between Mexico and the U.S. roughly every month, using the same personnel to hit targets, scout territory, and deliver high-value packages.


“Eight to twelve strike teams, at least,” he mutters to himself, tapping the notebook. Each team has its own M.O., preferred firearms, and network of local contacts. “And there’s more than one cartel running ops here… multiple overlapping operations. They’re juggling assignments like chess pieces.”


He begins sketching a timeline, marking when each team appears in California versus when they rotate south. Even with incomplete data, the rotation schedule is clear enough to give him predictive power. By cross-referencing the teams with the Angels’ weapons logs, he can start tracing which teams are likely armed, when, and with what, narrowing down the next likely operations.


WS leans back and smiles faintly. It’s not perfect, but it’s the first real map of the enemy’s moves. And for a 16-year-old sitting in a cheap motel with six biker bodyguards cleaning up after him, that’s enough to start planning.


Los Angeles stretched out under the smoggy morning sun, massive and unyielding. WS hunched over his notes, eyes scanning maps of the city while Sacramento’s voice crackled through the secure line.


“The MS are waking up,” Sacramento said. “They know something’s hitting them. But they’re not fleeing—yet. They’re pulling back from San Francisco, Atlanta, and other territories. All roads lead to LA now.”


WS nodded, already running the numbers. “Average drug den elsewhere? Five to eight grand a day. LA? Fifty thousand. That’s why they’re willing to fight.”


He grimaced at the memory. “Two pit bulls… vocal cords cut… had to put them down.” He slammed his notebook shut, frustration curling in his chest. Animals weren’t collateral in his eyes. he hates killing furry things... well animals at least furries can go and get fucked that bunch of freaks!


His guys had taken care of the house—fire, bodies, the works—but the blaze acted like a beacon. The MS would know where to look. WS had been forced to pull back, careful to keep the strike discreet.


This week’s haul was down. Ninety thousand per member—well below their peak. “If the MS link this to the Angels,” he said quietly, “they could hit back. And that could hurt some of my brothers.”


He leaned back, eyes narrowing at the sprawling city. It was a chessboard now, and every den, every patrol, every early detection system the MS had installed mattered. LA wasn’t just a city—it was a battlefield, and the stakes were climbing higher by the day.


By the third day of his recovery, the streets of LA were a war zone. Hundreds of MS members flooded key neighborhoods, their usual incompetence forcing reactions from rival gangs and drawing in police reinforcements.


In three days alone: twenty-one Calle members, three cops, and ninety-eight Mara Salvatrucha were dead or injured in clashes. The city was on edge. Surveillance had increased, profits were dropping, and even politicians were sweating bullets. There were murmurs of calling in the National Guard to restore order.


WS watched the reports silently. The MS were weakened nationwide, but their presence in LA still sparked chaos. Word was spreading fast: hitting drug dens had become the new gold rush. Some tried to emulate the mythic profits he and his crew had pulled—five Aztecs died in a failed attempt, while three Calle members succeeded.


The regular street gangs, accustomed to scraping by, were blinded by greed. Even the Crips and the Bloods felt the sting, unprepared for the precision and brutality of these new strikes. The city had descended into a civil war of sorts.


Few innocents were caught in the crossfire, but each casualty lit the flames of public outrage. Regular citizens were angry, the mayor was forced to comment, and even the governor took notice. Every bullet, every burnt house, every police siren reminded the city that the scum were killing each other—and everyone was starting to feel the heat.


WS leaned back, sipping his coffee. Time to move on, he thought. This heat isn’t sustainable. But damn… the chaos is beautiful in its own way.


WS paused at the edge of LA, staring down at the sprawling former movie studio that served as the Riders’ main chapter house in Southern California. Time to pay a visit. Blueprints in hand, he traced the exits and access points with cold precision. Through the sewers would be quiet, invisible… and deadly.


By nightfall, the work was done. Twenty-five Riders inside the compound were dead. Most had been lucky enough to sleep elsewhere, but WS left trophies: seven dead MS members, strategically placed, alongside caches of black tar heroin in the Riders’ safe.


The next morning, reporters arrived. The story was explosive: the MS had struck back against those attacking their safehouses, and the evidence of black tar confirmed the scale of the conflict. The seven MS bodies were tied to a failed attempt on a drug den; the survivors, seeking revenge, had targeted the Riders.


News spread fast. MS and Riders in jails across the country erupted in violence, fueled by revenge and territorial fury. Shootings became a pastime wherever their turfs overlapped. Meanwhile, WS quietly moved north, the chaos trailing in his wake. With luck, the Riders’ LA chapter would be disbanded—crippling one of their most profitable chapters and weakening their grip on Southern California.


WS didn’t linger. He had set the board, and now it was time to watch the pieces move.