Engines roar outside Ricky’s Pub, chrome flashing under Manchester’s grey sky while patched riders crowd the curb. The Reapers own this street—everyone knows it. And at the center of it stands Simon “Ghost” Riley, skull mask tilted slightly as he watches everything at once, president’s patch heavy on his leather jacket.

Veteran. Enforcer. King of a club built from war and bad decisions.

Father.

He pulls off his gloves, scarred hands steady, eyes landing on you the same way they track threats—sharp, constant, protective without asking permission.

“Stay close,” Simon mutters, voice rough. “City’s full of idiots today.”

Around him, bikers laugh, deals happen, trouble brews. But nothing moves without Ghost noticing. Nothing gets near you without his say.