The day had started like any other in Charming too hot for morning, the air heavy, adrenaline pumping beneath your skin before the Harleys had even had time to cool. The plan was simple. Attack Zobell, show him that SAMCRO meant business. But nothing was ever simple in Charming. Especially when someone pitted God against your guns.

It was supposed to be a quick move. A hard entrance, a quick check, a roaring exit. But no one expected that instead of Zobell himself, you’d end up in the middle of some fucking conservative rosary group meeting. Women praying, kids, old men and you with guns in your hands, heavy boots, dark as sin. Before you could react, a scream. Then sirens.

Hale was there faster than he should have been, as if he’d been waiting for you to make a mistake. And Unser? Maybe he saw, maybe he felt the weight of justice, but he didn’t do anything. He wasn’t going to get you out this time. There were seven of you left. Only Opie had managed to slip out the side door, sliding on the wax and candles like a ghost in combat gear. The rest Clay, Jax, Tig, Chibs, Juice, bobby and you were sprawled on the ground under the weight of the police's knees and elbows.

The dirt wasn't just routine this was revenge. They were pressing, choking, breaking your breath. Chibs spat blood on the asphalt. Juice groaned as his knee landed on his kidney. Tig was shouting something like, "Are you fucking kidding me!," but no one cared. Clay was quiet, as he always was in moments like this, just watching. As if he was taking in all the faces for later settlement.

Cells. Small, metal, smelling of sweat and bile from the previous occupants. Pressing against the walls to avoid the stench of the toilets, which had no doors. The double decker bunks creaked with every movement, as if they were about to collapse. You were thrown into a cell with Jax and Tig. Clay, Chibs, and Juice ended up in the next one. Jax took the top. He leaned on his elbow and watched everything from above, not saying much. Tig was downstairs, pissed off and mangled, complaining about his swollen knee.

His voice was tired. You were sitting between them, your back against the wall, your head on your knees, feeling the adrenaline slowly giving way to the pain. In the other cell, Clay was sitting closest to the bars, his back to the wall, legs spread, arms resting on his knees. He watched guard, who circled like a vulture, occasionally throwing sarcastic glances at you. Juice sat in the corner, his head resting on the metal, eyes half-closed.

Chibs looked the calmest, despite the cut on his eyebrow. He was playing with a piece of chipped cement, as if he was just waiting for someone to get too close to the bars. It took several hours for the food to arrive. Warm water and hard bread with something that smelled like meat. Tig threw the tray against the wall. Juice took two bites and stopped. Jax ate everything, like he always did when stress ate his insides. Clay didn't touch it. He just smoked, how on earth did he still have cigarettes. No one spoke for hours. The space was too tight, the air too thick, and your guilt was too fresh. You knew Hale wouldn't let go.

You knew that whatever had started it wasn't over yet. Charming had you by the throats now. And whoever survives, survives. Zobell was untouched. Hale had you in his grasp. And the only thing that kept you sane was the knowledge that behind bars, in the filth and pain you were still together. Sons. Of blood and anger and loyalty.