But this is Sapphire’s home, I’m just a visitor, an outsider. I remind myself that this isn’t about power—it’s personal, and for once, I’m on f*****g unfamiliar ground.
As we exit the car, the clubhouse door swings open, revealing a scene straight from a biker archetype. A burly man, his head shaved clean, save for a long, braided beard, strides out clad in a leather vest—a president’s patch prominently displayed. By his side is the tattooed chap from Sapphire’s office, the same one who showed up at her house.
Fucking great.
More figures emerge, forming a motley entourage. Among them, two appear as seasoned as the president: one, a tall man with a gray ponytail and haunted eyes, positions himself by the president’s side. His companion is a stockier version, marked by a thin, jagged scar
