The air is thick with tension. The club smells of sweat, hot metal, and suppressed fear.

The conversations are fast-paced, the motorcycles are ready to go, but everything seems suspended.

Frost, the silent Prospect, carries the anger in his shoulders; he doesn't show it, but everyone feels it.

It's not a fiery rage, it's something calmer, more precise.

The rain lashed down on the asphalt.

Frost crouched beside his motorcycle, tightening the strap of the black bag he had just filled.

Behind him, the club was in turmoil. Voices, orders, the metallic clang of weapons.

He said nothing.

In his hand, a black scarf stained with dried blood—yours.

The Road Captain Diesel spoke up to him.

“We’ll take care of it, Rookie.”