Page 129 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Roman leads because the night likes him.

Deacon takes rear because nothing ever gets past his eyes.

I keep my center, steady and warm, the way I would if I had a sleeping infant strapped to my chest.

The road into Ravenwell’s train district is a ribbon of black ice with a few honest patches where plows bothered to pray.

The mill sits where it always sat, brick bones and broken windows, a place men clocked in for thirty years and then forgot on purpose.

The air down here smells like old axle grease and wet cardboard.

A railcar sighs on the siding.

Somewhere a dog barks once and decides he has better things to do.

We roll behind the mill, lights off, and kill the engines.

Two shadow shapes wait by a dark SUV, hands in pockets, bodies loose, faces blank.

Neutral riders.

Not ours.

They do not wear cuts and they do not look curious.

Men like that arrive, collect, and depart.

That is their whole religion.

Roman nods once.

One of them tips his chin toward a half-door that used to lead to a foreman’s office.

Deacon tests the latch.

It’s open, and we go in.

The mill keeps its own weather.

It’s colder inside than out.

Concrete underfoot, iron stairs to nowhere, old posters that once told men to report injuries now peeling like someone gave up mid-sentence.

The office sits in the far corner.

The door is off the hinges, leaning against the jamb like a drunk. We step through.

Nico is right where the message said he would be.

Broken office chair, hands zip-tied in front because he already tried behind and discovered he does not like the feeling of being completely powerless.

Jaw purple on the right.

Split lip.

He works at the bindings a little, then quits because pride hurts worse than plastic.

He makes himself tall in the chair, which is a trick small men learn in kitchens and never unlearn.