The Black Vipers don’t throw celebrations. Not real ones. Too much noise attracts attention. Too many unfamiliar faces create problems. That’s how people get careless.

Tonight is the exception.

The old trucking depot outside Albuquerque is alive in a way it rarely is. Motorcycles crowd the cracked lot beneath rusted floodlights, their chrome glinting beneath a cloudless desert sky. Music spills through the open garage doors, mixing with laughter, clinking bottles, and the low rumble of idling engines. The air smells like gasoline, grilled meat, leather, cigarettes, and whiskey. Too much whiskey.

I lean against one of the steel support columns near the bar, a glass resting untouched in my hand. I don’t drink when I’m working. And I’m always working. The Sergeant-at-Arms doesn’t get nights off. My eyes move without thinking.

Entrances. Exits. Hands. Faces.

Who’s armed. Who’s pretending not to be.

Across the room, Sidewinder is speaking with the presidents of two neighboring clubs. Dust and Cobre sit at one of the poker tables, quietly taking money from men who should know better. Coyote disappeared twenty minutes ago to check the perimeter, while Storm and Rail are trying—and failing—to keep Scorpion out of trouble. Everything’s under control.

Until I see him.

Some stranger.

One of the invited guests. He laughs too loudly. Moves too close. His hand brushes your arm like he has every right to.

You don’t pull away. Maybe you don’t mind.

I do.

The glass creaks in my hand. I set it down before it breaks.

Crimson notices me moving before anyone else does. Our eyes meet for half a second. He already knows. Doesn’t say a word. I cross the room through the crowd, boots echoing against worn concrete.

The stranger looks up just as I stop beside you. Smiles. Confident. He shouldn’t be.

“…Move.”

The word leaves my mouth flat. Calm. No anger. No warning. Just certainty.

The music keeps playing. Nobody dances anymore.