Mike
1674 Words
**Mike**
Reaper didn’t slow down for a second.
Mike had to pick up his pace, and more than once he wondered if running wouldn’t be easier. His sneakers didn’t help—they kept slipping on the loose gravel covering the courtyard.
Stones crunched under his soles as they pushed through rows of motorcycles.
He had never seen so many beautiful, expensive machines in one place. For a second, he wanted to run his fingers over one of them—feel the cold metal, the smooth chrome—but he stopped himself.
Instinct told him everything here was territorial.
Especially their property.
Black, heavy bikes stood side by side like a pack of metal beasts waiting to be unleashed. Chrome reflected the harsh light from the clubhouse walls. The air smelled like gasoline, smoke, and grilled meat.
His stomach growled loudly.
He hadn’t eaten anything all day—just a dry roll he’d swallowed in a rush that morning.
On the terrace, the club members were gathered. Some held beer, others plates piled with meat—some of it still half raw. Laughter mixed with the clink of bottles, the sound of knives cutting into flesh, and low music humming in the background.
Loki looked like he was sitting on a throne instead of a chair. Reclined, relaxed, a bottle of whiskey in hand. Watching everything with the kind of smile that said he was enjoying himself more than anyone else here.
Every now and then, he lifted the bottle slightly—like he was toasting to himself.
Ares was the opposite.
Leaning against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. Broad shoulders. Tattoos crawling out from under his vest. Even from a distance, Mike could tell—this was the kind of man who solved problems with his fists.
He stood still.
Like a predator that had already chosen its prey.
Hades sat quietly, but something in his gaze made Mike absolutely certain he never wanted to meet him in a dark alley. At first glance, he looked bored—but Mike knew better.
He was watching.
And he hadn’t taken a single sip of his drink.
But it was Raven who unsettled him the most.
He hadn’t moved.
Still in the same spot.
Light hit only half of his face, the rest swallowed by shadow.
He wasn’t doing anything.
Just standing.
Watching.
Mike had the strange feeling that Raven’s gaze wasn’t stopping at his surface. Like it went deeper. Like he could see more than just a skinny, out-of-place kid in cheap sneakers.
Like he knew something.
Mike quickly looked away.
“Move,” Reaper muttered.
Mike obeyed, quickening his pace.
Only now did he fully realize how massive the man in front of him was. Reaper was at least a head taller. His broad shoulders stretched the leather of his vest to the limit. Every step he took was heavy. Certain.
Like the world already belonged to him.
Next to him, Mike looked like a scarecrow.
Too thin. Too long. Arms and legs all wrong.
Reaper was built from muscle.
Mike looked like he had none.
For a split second, a thought flashed through his mind.
Run.
He still could.
The gate was behind him.
No one would stop him.
No one would chase him.
They might even be glad he left.
Mike clenched his jaw.
He hadn’t come here for himself.
A face appeared in his mind.
Dark hair. Tired green eyes.
And that stubborn smile—like everything was fine. Like she had it under control.
Nothing was fine.
Nothing.
He had made her a promise.
And he didn’t break promises.
He couldn’t fail her.
The clubhouse looked even bigger up close. Two stories of dark wood and metal, more fortress than home. Narrow windows. Heavy lamps by the entrance, casting sharp light across the doorway.
The door opened with a low creak.
Inside, the temperature dropped instantly.
Cooler.
The air smelled like leather, smoke, and alcohol.
To the left stretched a long wooden bar. Shelves packed with bottles. Old license plates, photos of bikes, patches from different places covering the walls.
In the center stood heavy wooden tables, scarred with deep cuts from knives and years of use. Burn marks from cigarettes dotted the surface.
It didn’t ruin the place.
It gave it character.
At the far end—heavy, gold-trimmed doors.
Somewhere not everyone was allowed to go.
“Don’t even look that way,” Reaper said.
Mike immediately looked away, feeling like a kid caught stealing candy.
His stomach growled again.
They moved deeper into the building. The hallway walls were covered in photos—old bikes, groups of men in leather vests. Some of them looked decades old.
Like this club had history.
Reaper pushed open a metal door.
Storage.
Metal shelves. Crates. Boxes.
He grabbed something and tossed it toward Mike. Mike barely caught it.
He unfolded it.
A black leather vest.
The club’s patch stitched onto it—smaller than the full members’.
Mike stared at it.
The leather was heavier than he expected. It smelled sharp—sweat, dust, cigarette smoke. Not new.
Someone had worn it before.
Someone who either left…
or didn’t get the chance to wear it again.
“Put it on,” Reaper muttered. “I’m not standing here all night.”
Mike swallowed and slipped it on.
The weight settled on his shoulders.
Heavier than it should’ve been.
Like it carried something else with it.
Responsibility.
Rules.
Trouble.
It hung slightly too wide in the shoulders, but still looked loose on him.
Reaper studied him.
Face.
Arms.
Whole body.
“Hm.”
That single sound was enough to make Mike feel like an exhibit.
“Well?” Mike asked.
Reaper snorted.
“You look like you got lost on the way to a school field trip.”
Mike said nothing.
“But relax,” Reaper added. “We’ve had a few like you.”
“And?”
Reaper shrugged.
“Some ran.”
A beat.
“Some didn’t get the chance.”
Mike didn’t ask what that meant.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
He adjusted the vest. The leather creaked softly. Still too heavy.
Like it was reminding him—he wasn’t just some outsider kid anymore.
Reaper jerked his head toward the door.
“Move. Before Zeus changes his mind.”
Mike followed.
But just before leaving, he paused for a second in front of a metal cabinet. His reflection stared back at him.
Thin.
Awkward.
Too young.
Wearing a vest he didn’t belong in.
Not yet.
Laughter drifted in from outside.
When they stepped back into the courtyard, conversations on the terrace quieted—for a moment.
Mike felt the eyes on him.
Not all of them friendly.
Loki tilted his head, watching him with open curiosity. He raised his bottle slightly—like he was greeting a new toy.
“Well, well,” he said loudly. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a hero.”
A few men laughed.
Ares didn’t.
His gaze moved slowly over Mike—from his shoes to his face.
Cold.
Evaluating.
Mike had the distinct feeling he’d just been weighed…
and found lacking.
Hades only nodded slightly, like he was memorizing his face.
Raven didn’t move.
Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t speak.
His gaze was calm. Almost indifferent.
And yet Mike had the strange feeling he’d just been filed away somewhere deep in that man’s mind.
Like Raven was already deciding—
problem…
or solution.
Reaper appeared beside him again, this time holding a plate and a beer.
The steak was cooked through.
Mike was about to sit when a whistle cut through the air.
“Hey, prospect.”
Mike looked up.
Loki.
Still smiling.
Still watching.
“Come here.”
Reaper didn’t say a word. Just stayed where he was, like he was curious whether Mike was stupid enough to refuse.
Mike stepped closer.
“Yeah?”
Loki looked him up and down.
“How much do you weigh?”
Mike blinked.
“What?”
“I asked how much you weigh,” Loki repeated calmly. “Because if you turned sideways, we might lose you between the bikes.”
Laughter.
Heat crawled up Mike’s neck.
“Enough,” he said shortly.
Loki raised a brow.
“Oh. He’s got a tongue.”
Ares glanced at him.
“Let’s see if he’s got a spine.”
Mike couldn’t tell if that was a warning…
or a promise.
Hades leaned back slightly and nodded toward the plate in Reaper’s hand.
“Let him eat first,” he said. “Before he drops and Zeus thinks we starved him.”
Loki laughed quietly.
“Fair point. Let’s not break the toy on day one.”
Reaper handed Mike the plate.
“Sit. Eat. Before someone changes their mind.”
“Eat,” he added. “Everyone within five miles heard that stomach.”
Mike didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
Someone was still watching him.
And he was almost sure it was Raven.
For a moment, Mike just stared at the steak.
Thick.
Perfectly cooked.
Steam still rising.
The smell hit him so hard it almost made him dizzy.
When was the last time he ate something like this?
Never.
Probably never.
He cut into it.
Paused.
Like someone might take it away.
Then he took the first bite.
His eyes closed.
It was that good.
He didn’t even notice when he started eating faster.
Someone laughed above him.
“Easy, prospect,” Loki called. “No one’s taking it.”
Mike slowed down—but didn’t stop.
He sat there between the bikes.
An outsider.
Surrounded by predators in their own territory.
And yet, for the first time in days…
he felt something strange.
Not safety.
But something close to it.
He looked up.
Raven was still watching.
Mike dropped his gaze back to the plate.
Because if that man really could see more than the others…
Mike hoped—
he wouldn’t see everything.
- Writer
