The Iron Wolves’ clubhouse didn't smell like beer and stale smoke anymore. It smelled of ozone, burning solder, and the terrified excitement of men who were watching magic happen in real-time.
My father, Chen Wei, stood in the center of the main bay, looking like a wizard who had stumbled into a chop shop. He was surrounded by burly bikers covered in tattoos, all of them watching him with wide eyes as he wired a quantum-processor into the gas tank of a 2024 Harley-Davidson.
"This is insane," my father muttered, his hands shaking slightly as he twisted a fiber-optic cable around a fuel line. "You're trying to inject a sub-spatial frequency into an internal combustion engine. The vibration alone should shatter the manifold."
"It won't shatter if you harmonize the idle," I said, sliding ou
