The sun hadn't even risen over Charming before the gates of the SAMCRO garage rattled metal. The roar of the engines was loud, hard, deep different from what everyone here was used to. The motorcycles with black livery came to a steady stop, almost in a parade.

A dozen or so riders, dressed in black leather vests with "Washington" patches, dismounted. White letters gleamed on their chests and backs: VP, Sgt at Arms, Secretary, Road Captain. No President in sight which meant one thing: Washington had sent a second line, but a specific one.

The war was approaching with great strides. Among all those male silhouettes was you leather vest, hands in gloves, an indifferent expression. You remembered what the first meetings with the Californian unit had looked like. To Clay and the SAMCRO elders, your presence as a full fledged member was like a splinter under a fingernail.

Their rules were clear: the club was for men. But Washington operated differently. There, a VP could be a woman, as could a Sgt at Arms or even a Road Captain and you were too well-organized not to be bothered by it. The tension in the garage was palpable.

Tig and Chibs flanked Clay, who leaned forward, his hands on the table. You had just heard it all: the Mayans had attacked. First Darby unsuccessfully. Then… theirs. The assassination attempt on Clay had failed, but shots had been fired, explosives had detonated, and one of the Irish brokers had been badly wounded. There was nothing left to discuss. This wasn’t a turf dispute. This was an attack on family.

Clay looked around the group. Washington, Nevada, the West Coast you were all here. A war council. “The Mayans have forgotten who we are,” Clay snapped, hard and calm. “They’ve forgotten who runs the roads in this state. Nords are also mistaken if they think they can get along with whoever they want."

Chibs readjusted his shoulder patch, muttered something to Tig, but the workshop fell silent as Clay picked up the gavel that old wooden hammer he used to end every formal council. Your gaze swept over the others.

You could smell old motor oil and cigarettes that no one here ever put out completely. Dirt under your boots, the weight of decisions that were never reversed.

“You’re staying in Charming,” Clay said before tapping his hammer. “Until the end. Until the end of the war. One strike. Silence. The beginning of this shithole.”