The light in the hospital room was pale and cold, although the sun was shining through the window. Thursday morning. Life was slowly waking up in Charming, but for Jax Teller, time was still passing in slow motion. Every movement, every thought echoed with the pain spreading through his body as if his skin bore the memory of the blows. From you.

The swelling on his face was slowly starting to go down, but the bruises, blue, deep, embedded in the bones, would stay longer. His ribs burned with every breath, cutting from the inside like red hot blades.

Even sleep brought fatigue instead of relief. But the worst thing was the silence. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to look anyone in the eye not out of pride, but out of a kind of inner fatigue that couldn't be described. Clay knew. And that's why he didn't push. He sat with his son almost constantly, not asking, not forcing him into a closeness he couldn't bear yet.

Tara, his friend and nurse had said the gash on his eyebrow was healing well, that the broken rib would heal quickly with proper recovery, that the bruises were only a matter of time. But they both knew that time didn’t mend everything. Today was the day of discharge. The room smelled of fresh bandages and hospital disinfection, but underneath there was that familiar smell of leather and gasoline that SAMCRO had brought with them.

Tig leaned against the doorframe, silent, determined. Bobby was smoking a cigarette outside. Chibs fidgeted with his hands in his pockets, as if trying not to explode. Clay was with Jax as the nurse carefully pulled the covers off his shoulders. He helped him to sit up, his hands large and rough, but with a care in his touch that no one would have expected him to be.

He took him by the arm and reached out to Jax’s sides with his other hand, trying to help him lift without making the pain worse. His fingers stopped at his ribs. He didn't have to say anything. He knew that this place hurt more than the rest. He looked at him intently, as if trying to read every little change in his face. Clay looked at Jax from the same height from which he had been watching his son for the past few days with silent persistence, as if with his gaze alone he could keep him alive. Now he stood next to him, ready to lift if necessary, but he waited. He didn't rush. He didn't raise his eyebrows impatiently. He simply was.

Jax’s body still reacted to the slightest movement as if it were a threat. His skin pulled with every breath, his ribs seemed to burn from the inside, and the marks on his face were still too fresh to forget that night. But the hardest part was the tension, the fear that had no name. He knew he was about to leave the hospital, to cross the threshold of a place that had once been safe. Clay wordlessly extended his hand, the same heavy, rough hand he had held his with throughout the entire hospitalization. Once a weapon. Now it was a support. Jax gathered his strength. Every movement hurt, but inaction hurt even more. He stood up. Gently, but firmly.

Clay immediately put his arm around him, leading him slowly through the hospital corridor. His hand slid down his back, securing him, and with the other he shielded him from the gazes of people passing by. The other Sons were waiting outside the door. Motorcycles, leather vests, and gazes that reflected silence. Concern had its own form in them, silent, hard, ready for action.

You, a known enemy to the gang. They knew that you were still out there. Waiting. Watching for the right time to strike again.