Chapter 2 - Fragments of the PastA heavy pause stretched between them. The man in the coat shifted his gaze to the biker. Studying. Measuring. His eyes flicked over the scars on the biker's face, across his broad shoulders, and lingered on the thick calluses on his hands.
“And you are?” he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone.
The biker didn’t answer. Because something else had caught his attention.
The girl. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her hands were still shaking—but no longer just from fear.
“Why him?” the biker whispered, his eyes never leaving the man in front of him.
The girl hesitated. Then, her voice catching in her throat, she whispered, “Because my mom told me to.”
That changed everything. The biker’s grip tightened slightly. “Your mom told you what?” he asked.
The man in the coat took another step forward, his patience wearing thin.
“She said if I ever needed help…” the girl said softly, “…to find someone with your patch.” Her trembling fingers touched the embroidered leather emblem on his back—a skull flanked by wings, the crest of the Sons of Ash, a notorious MC that had dissolved ten years ago.
The biker went completely still. That wasn’t random. That wasn’t luck. That was a specific, deliberate directive from someone who knew the world he had left behind.
The man's expression shifted, if only for a fraction of a second. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice hardening. “Come here.”
The girl didn’t move. The biker leaned forward slightly, shielding her entirely with his massive frame. “Not happening,” he said, each word dropping like lead.
The man’s smirk faded completely. “You don’t understand what this is,” he said.
The biker exhaled slowly. “No,” he replied. “But I understand enough.”
The man reached into his coat. The room tensed instantly, the air turning to glass. But the biker didn’t flinch. Because now, he knew exactly what he was dealing with—a professional predator. “Stay behind me,” he said softly. The girl nodded.
The man stopped. He didn’t pull anything out yet. He just stood there, his hand resting inside his coat pocket, watching.
Then—something unexpected happened. The girl reached into the deep pocket of her oversized coat and pulled out something small. A photograph. The corners were yellowed and creased from years of handling. She held it up.
The biker glanced down. And the world spun on its axis once more. Because in that photo was a woman with a radiant smile he thought he had buried lifetimes ago: Helena.
She was standing next to a man. A man he recognized instantly. A younger version of himself, his face free of half the scars he now carried.
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The biker’s breath slowed. “Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“My mom,” the girl said. A heavy pause. “She said you’d remember.”
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