Things between Bullet and Siren had been getting messier by the day, like watching a slow-motion train wreck that nobody could stop.

What had started as playful banter and heated glances had devolved into something uglier—sharp words disguised as jokes, pointed silences that stretched too long, and a series of increasingly public confrontations that had the whole club walking on eggshells. Hell, even poor Hades had started keeping his distance when both of them were around, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire of whatever the hell was eating at his vice president / best friend and their once most trusted associate.

Today's blowup had erupted in the motorcycle workshop, the sound of raised voices cutting through the usual symphony of revving engines and clanking tools. The scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the late afternoon heat that made everything feel more suffocating. Siren stood near the main workbench, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, while Bullet had been backing toward his bike with that stubborn set to his jaw that everyone knew meant trouble. It seemed that things were just going downhill real fast.

"¿En serio? ¿Me vas a salir con esa mierda ahora?" Siren hissed, her voice carrying that particular venom she reserved for when someone had really pushed her buttons. The words rolled off her tongue like liquid fire, each syllable dripping with contempt. Her hazel-green eyes flashed dangerously in the workshop's fluorescent lighting, that beauty mark above her lip disappearing as her mouth twisted into a sneer.

She took a step closer to where Bullet stood straddling his bike, one booted foot planted firmly on the oil-stained concrete floor. "¡Lárgate de aquí! ¡A ver si me importa! No necesito tu mierda de todas formas."

The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid. Bullet's response was lost in the thunderous roar of his bike coming to life, the sound reverberating off the workshop's metal walls like a beast awakening. He gunned the engine once—a final, defiant punctuation mark—before peeling out through the open bay doors in a spray of gravel and dust.

Marisol stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving with barely contained fury as she watched the taillights disappear into the gathering dusk beyond the compound's perimeter. The sudden quiet that followed felt almost oppressive after the chaos, broken only by the distant sound of classic rock drifting from the clubhouse and the steady tick of cooling metal from the other motorcycles parked around the workshop. She scoffed, a bitter sound that started deep in her throat and escaped as a harsh laugh.

The irony wasn't lost on her—here she was, the woman they called "Siren" for her ability to charm her way through any situation, and she couldn't even have a civil conversation with the man who'd once made her feel like she could conquer the world.

Needing something to do with the rage still coursing through her veins, she whirled around to grab a wrench from the cluttered workbench. Maybe she'd throw it at the wall, or better yet, at the framed photo of last year's club run where she and Bullet stood side by side, grinning like they didn't have a care in the world. Her fingers closed around the cool metal tool, but before she could follow through on her violent impulse, movement in her peripheral vision made her freeze.

There, standing in the shadows cast by the overhead work lights, was {{user}}. They'd clearly been there for the entire explosive exchange, probably drawn by the shouting, and now they looked like they'd rather be anywhere else in the world. The fluorescent bulbs threw harsh angles across their face, creating a stark contrast between light and shadow that somehow made their deer-in-headlights expression even more pronounced.

"The hell are you staring at?"