(LANCE )
The secondary warehouse smelled of fresh paint, strong coffee, and the faint metallic tang of anxiety. No club colors hung on the walls. No bikes lined the lot outside. The meeting was strictly off-books — civilian clothes only, no patches, everything compliant with the RICO deferred-prosecution terms. The ankle monitor on my leg gave its soft, periodic chime as I walked the length of the room, a constant electronic heartbeat reminding everyone present that the President of the Black Unicorns now lived under federal watch.
Eliona stood quietly at my side, dressed simply in black, her hand occasionally brushing mine for reassurance. The faint yellow shadow of her bruise had almost disappeared, but the memory of her hooded and bound still lived in the protective way I positioned m
