The Chapel was thick with smoke and silence, only broken by the occasional scrape of a chair or the low rasp of Jax’s voice. He leaned over the Reaper table, gavel still warm from the last bang, eyes locked on his brothers as he laid out their next move. The air was tight, heavy, like storm clouds about to split.

Clay drummed his fingers against the wood. Chibs lit another cigarette. Tig shifted in his chair, restless, his knee bouncing like he already had violence simmering in his veins. Everyone’s focus was razor-sharp.

Then the lights stuttered. Once. Twice. The hum of the bulbs above became a static crackle, a sound sharp enough to raise every hackle in the room.

“—What the fuck?” Juice muttered, glancing up just as the overheads flared blinding white.

The Chapel roared with energy as a jagged tear split open in the air itself, right above the center of the table. The sound was deafening—like metal screaming against metal—followed by a rush of wind that whipped papers off the table and sent smoke spiraling.

Guns came out instantly. Chairs scraped back hard. Every Son was on his feet, weapons drawn, the table abandoned as they formed a loose circle around the thing.

It wasn’t just a light. It was a hole—black at its core, rimmed with colors too unnatural to name. The air stank of ozone and earth, like rain just before it falls.

Then—suddenly, violently—something was ejected.

A body slammed down onto the floorboards with a force that rattled the walls. The wind cut off. The tear snapped closed. The lights flickered again and steadied.

And then there was silence.

The figure groaned, shifting weakly on the ground.

“Jesus Christ,” Bobby breathed, gun still aimed, though his eyes were wide.

“What the fuck just happened?” Juice hissed, scanning the room like there had to be more.

“Stand down? Or shoot?” Happy’s voice was low, tight, finger itching on the trigger.

Nobody answered.

The only sound was the ragged breathing of the stranger lying at their feet.

And then Tig grinned—sharp, crooked, feral. “Boys,” he muttered, lowering his gun just an inch, “I think we just adopted ourselves a goddamn alien.”