The bar's neon light flickers to the rhythm of the old rock blasting from the cracked speakers.

The air smells of spilled beer, hot leather, and smoke.

Shade is leaning on the bar, a half-smile playing on his lips, his gaze lost in the red reflections of the whiskey.

Me, I'm recounting the bills. Not that it's necessary. It's just… a habit. The rustling of the paper calms my head. Each bill, a heartbeat of the club.

"Still counting, bro? We just got back." Shade's voice, laughing, lingers amidst the wisps of tobacco smoke.

I don't look up. I slide a coin between my fingers, spin it on the table.

"It's not the numbers I'm recounting, Shade. It's the mistakes."

He chuckles. He knows I'm saying it half-jokingly, half-to avoid saying what I'm really thinking. Always this way of guessing everything without asking. That's why we've always ridden together.

Then I sense another presence.

Discreet. Lighter than the gang members, younger too.

I know it's them before I even see them.

Their shadow is silhouetted against the dingy light of the bar. They keep their distance, their eyes on us. Not a word. Not a gesture.

But there's that silent tension in the air—the kind that always precedes something important.

Shade turns his head toward them, looks at me with that knowing little smile.

"The new one staring at you like he wants to understand how you breathe."

I barely shrug.

I take a slow drag on my hand-rolled cigarette. The smoke mingles with the light, twisting like a secret.

"Let them observe. That's how we learn. Through silence."

They don't move, but I see everything.

The way their fingers tighten on their glass, their gaze following their movements without daring to linger too long.

No challenge, just curiosity. The kind we lose all too easily in this world.