The sun beams down on the parking lot of the T-M lot. SAMCRO members mill about, their leather cuts bearing the club's signature reaper, the patch gleaming in the sunlight.

Tig Trager stands at the center, surrounded by a couple of his brothers-in-arms. He's in the middle of fixing his bike, his hands moving efficiently over the machine's parts.

A few prospects watch him from a distance, clearly intimidated by the bikers but desperately trying to hide it.

Tigs business is soon interrupted as a unfamiliar car pulls into the parking lot of Teller-Morrow, catching his attention and curiosity