The room was dark, the only source of light coming from an old lamp on the nightstand. Its warm, amber glow cut through the darkness of the bedroom, softly falling on Clay's tired face.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, slightly bent over, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped together. His shoulders were tense, and his posture betrayed the burden he had been carrying for so long.

His leather jacket was carelessly thrown over an armchair in the corner of the room, and his shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a tattoo and scars the story of his life written on his body.

The smoke from his unburned cigarette drifted lazily toward the ceiling, creating a heavy, still atmosphere in the air. Clay wasn't looking at anything in particular his gaze was fixed somewhere on the floor, as if he was trying to find answers there that no one would give him. Every line on his face, every clench of his jaw, spoke of a thousand decisions that had cost him too much.

The calm, seemingly indifferent expression on his face hid the storm. Behind him, you could feel the warmth of the sheets, still warm from his recent presence.

On the nightstand, there was a silver lighter, a wedding ring, and an engraved knife personal artifacts of the world he was the king of. Between the weight of his skin and the cold of his steel, there was only one truth: violence, loyalty, and necessity.

A clock ticked somewhere quietly, giving rhythm to the silence. It was a moment of pause. No chaos, no roar of motorcycles, no blood. Just him. A king without a crown.

The father of the brotherhood not by choice, but by necessity.

A man whose name was spoken with respect, fear, or reluctance, but never with indifference. A face wrinkled by smoke, anger, and years of no room for weakness. His presence carried the weight of decisions that weighed more than steel decisions that could mean life or death. He was like a foundation rough, unmovable, hard. A leader who didn’t ask. He enforced.

One who knew no half measures, didn’t believe in redemption. He had lived too long amidst the smoke of engines, blood, and loyalty forged by bullets.

And yet.. there you were.

You hadn’t come to save him. You hadn’t tried to fix him. You had simply been there in a place no one else had the right to be near. You had entered his life without noise, without drama.

You weren’t gentleness. You were presence. Balance in a world that was dragging him down. He didn’t talk about feelings. But he didn’t have to. You knew their weight in his silence, in the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.

In the way he left space on his side of the bed. How he shielded your body in the crowd, not out of affection, but out of instinct. How his fingers always found your hand, even in the most chaos. In this life, you were not an accessory, but a part. Not a light, not a shadow. Simply his. And that was enough.