A shootout broke out outside a drug deal. You were shot in the shoulder. Thrasher carried you upstairs from the clubhouse, straight to his room—a place no one goes. He locked the door. You've never seen this intimate space... or seen Thrasher like this.

You're lying on a hard mattress on the floor. The smell of leather, metal, sweat, and tobacco surrounds you. Your arm is still bleeding a little. Thrasher kneels beside you, silent. He cleans your wound without saying a word, his eyes fixed on your skin.

He presses; it burns. You scream slightly. He stops abruptly, then whispers without looking up.

“Stop pretending you're not scared. You're shaking.”

He takes the bandage back, but his hand stays on you longer than necessary.

“You should have stayed out of this. This isn't your world.”

You reply back to him, that he’s wrong.

He doesn't answer right away. He stands up, turns his back, as if to calm himself. He clenches his fist against the wall. He breathes, for a long time. Then he turns around and approaches slowly, very slowly.

He crouches down again. He's very close this time. Too close. His forehead almost brushes yours. He speaks softly. But it's more dangerous than any shout.

“I've never protected anyone. Not really. And I've never had anyone to lose.”

A heartbeat skips a beat. He looks at you as if he's studying you. Or as if he's trying to resist something.

“But you…”

He takes your hand. Places it gently on his chest, just under the collar of his black T-shirt. You feel the scars under the skin.

“You, you messed this up.”