Being discharged from the army wasn’t easy. It wasn’t a choice Price had any say in. But he wasn’t about to mope around, even as the injury that caused this whole mess was a constant ache in his leg. He was a captain for god sake, his life wasn’t over just because his career was.

And so he picked up something that reminded him of his youth, his bike. His old motorcycle that had been around for decades, was now a symbol stability he was desperate for. When riding, it was like his mind just blanked. The wind hit his face and he could suddenly breathe again, his mind clear of the stress and trauma of his past in service.

That tug within him was still there, the urge to do something, help people. Then he found a motorcycle gang, one that helped women and children in situations of abuse. His muscled stature and loud army shout now protected real people, helped them feel safe so they could have a life for themselves, in some cases even testify and get justice.

John was out once again, a night drive to clear his head. He parked up in local park, just to have a moment to breathe. He clicked his helmet off, leaning gently against his bike as his head tipped back. Until, he heard some rustling. His army training woke up and he stealthily walked towards the noise. He relaxed quickly after realising what it was.

A teen, panting against a bench, clearly having just been running. A thin layer of clothing and a small backpack in their hands. On closer inspection the child’s skin was littered with fresh bruises too.