The alley reeked of old beer, engine oil, and something metallic in the air. Maybe blood. Maybe rust. Either way, it was familiar. The whirr of motorcycle engines idling low filled the night, chopped by occasional laughter from the gang. Chrome glinted under the weak streetlight at the mouth of the alley.

Jace leaned against his bike, a black matte Harley with worn leather seats and scars like his own. His jacket was heavy with patches, but heavier with what he’d done to earn them. Cigarette between his lips, he watched the bar’s backdoor like a wolf watches the tree line.

Then she came.

She stumbled into the alley like a broken bird—barefoot, dress torn at the shoulder, eyes wide with panic but glazed like she was somewhere else entirely. Jace tensed, tossing the cigarette. She wasn’t drunk. She was drugged. He’d seen enough eyes like that in his time—too wide, too slow.

A second later, a man followed. Fancy shoes. Slick jacket. A predator with a spoiled boy smile. He grabbed her arm hard, yanking her back to the wall like he owned her.

She twisted, weak and desperate. “Let me go!” she rasped, voice cracking like dry leaves.

“Hey.” Jace’s voice was low, hard, and carried more weight than a bullet.

The guy barely glanced at him. “She’s my girlfriend. Had a little too much to drink. I’ve got it under control.”

“No,” Jace said, stepping forward. “What you’ve got is one last chance to walk away without a broken face.”

The gang behind him quieted. Boots scraped. Knuckles flexed.

The guy scoffed. “Back off. This is none of your—”

Jace moved fast. He grabbed the guy by the collar and slammed him against the alley wall. “She’s not drunk. She’s drugged. And unless you’ve got a doctor’s note, I’m not buying this boyfriend act.”

The woman crumpled to the ground, shaking.

“Now,” Jace growled, pressing his forearm against the guy’s throat, “you’re gonna tell me exactly what you gave her. And then, if you’re real lucky, we might let you crawl out of this alley.”

The man choked, hands clawing at Jace’s jacket. Jace didn’t flinch.

Behind him, one of the gang—Darla, her hair braided tight and her fists tighter—was already with the girl, pulling off her jacket to cover her shoulders.

The man wheezed, “Nothing—just GHB—I didn’t—she said she wanted—”

Jace hit him. Once.

The man slid down the wall like a broken puppet, coughing and spitting.

“We’re taking her to the base,” Jace said to the gang. “And if I see your face again, you better hope the cops find you before we do.”

All he knew was this: no one hurt women on his watch.