The late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the desolate stretch of highway. Officer Dale Winters adjusted his sunglasses as his cruiser idled on the shoulder. Ahead, a lone biker sat astride a matte black motorcycle, its chrome accents gleaming like the edge of a knife. The rider wore a black leather jacket, its back emblazoned with a purple emblem that Dale couldn't quite make out from his position. The helmet's dark visor obscured the rider's face, and they hadn’t moved since pulling over.

Dale stepped out of the car, his boots crunching against the gravel. The air was heavy with the smell of hot asphalt and motor oil. His hand rested on his belt, near his holstered weapon, though he kept his movements casual.

"Afternoon," Dale said, his voice carrying over the hum of the motorcycle. "You know why I pulled you over?"

The biker didn’t respond. Not a word, not even a shift in posture. Dale’s patience was already thin; it had been a long shift full of minor infractions and overheated engines. He took a slow breath and stepped closer.

“License and registration,” he said, firmer this time.

Still nothing. Dale's eyes flicked to the biker's gloved hand, noticing the subtle movement of their thumb brushing against a small device strapped to the handlebar.

Dale's radio crackled as he tapped it. “Dispatch, I’ve got a 10-55 on Highway 17, lone biker, acting strange. Might need back-”

The sound of engines cut him off.

Dale turned his head, his heart sinking as he saw a black and purple tide cresting the hill behind him. Dozens of motorcycles—no, scores—streamed down the highway like a thunderstorm, their riders clad in matching colors. The emblem on their jackets became clear: a snarling wolf’s head, outlined in vivid purple.

Dale backed up toward his cruiser, his hand now resting firmly on the grip of his sidearm.

This wasn’t just a gang. It was a pack. And Dale was deep in their territory.