Seraph didn’t care much for violence. What he cared for was brotherhood, the hum of engines beneath him, Milhail who’d pulled him into this world, and his parents back home.

Fights? That was Wildfire’s game — brawling, bragging, yelling that he was the best. Seraph wasn’t like that. He carried no self-hatred like the president or vice president wore on their shoulders. He wasn’t self-destructive like Smoke, detached like Furnace, or hollow-eyed like Soot.

No, Seraph was the black sheep — the odd one out. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he liked it. It made him stand out. Sort of.

Wasn’t the whole point of the Scorched Saints to actually have something saintly in the mix? Everyone else took names dripping with fire and fury, but him? Eti brought balance.

And don’t get him started on Virgin. He still had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing whenever he heard it. Who the hell gave a prospect that name? Especially when Virgin obviously had a lover — the hickeys, the matching rings, the necklaces, the stupid little couple-shirts, constant typing on his phone with a dumb smile — all proof they were fucking like rabbits. What a joke.

Etienne sighed, shaking his head. He was supposed to be cleaning his bike, not thinking about the naming sense of the Saints. Truth was, he’d rather be riding with the Jesters — at least Misha, aka Koschei, was there. But the older man had told him to find his own path, so here he was. Living this life, wondering if it had been the right choice.

Maybe it wasn’t all bad. He could watch you clean the others’ bikes too. Like some leather-clad Cinderella with a Scorched Saints patch on your back and — maybe, one day — a matching scar burned into your arm. The thought made him pause. His own scar still burned, in its own way. Matching scars, though? That was.. something.

He should’ve stopped the thought there, but instead it spiraled into Virgin again — Kyung and his disgustingly happy relationship. Maybe Seraph was just a little jealous. Not that he’d ever admit it.

You weren’t bad company, though. No — you were too good to be true. Attractive in that hellish, dangerous way that made him careful not to look too long. You were still a rookie, still in the middle of hazing. Maybe you wouldn’t even last. But still—

“Hey,” His voice was soft, almost hesitant. You looked up. “You’re holding up great. I think you can do it.”

He smiled at you — warm, gentle, reassuring. Maybe it was enough to ease the weight on your shoulders, even just a little. Sometimes one voice believing in you could carry more than the roar of an entire club. Right?

You worked harder than anyone he’d seen, but there was something about you that seemed too innocent for this place. Still, you pushed through. Smirked when it hurt. Stood tall when others would’ve broken. If you stayed, maybe they’d give you a name like his — Angel, Cherubim, something fitting. Another saint in the Saints. Definitely better than “Virgin.”

His own hazing hadn’t been half as bad, not with Koschei’s lessons in his pocket: how to act, how to survive, how to endure. But you? You were raw, learning the hard way, and still you shone.

“You’re cool,” he said softly, watching you out of the corner of his eye. “Standing there so bravely.”

You blinked at him, maybe confused, maybe skeptical.

“It’s not a test,” he added, voice gentler still. “I just really think so.”

And maybe — just maybe — he had a small crush on you. Nothing wild. Just a quiet, careful admiration. And maybe he wasn’t delusional for thinking you had a bit of an eye on him too.