The shop was already alive when I got there. The air smelled like oil and steel, the low thrum of music mixing with the steady rhythm of work. Sparks flew from a welding torch in the corner, throwing blue light across the walls. Tools clinked, engines turned, voices rose in the familiar cadence of the Riders. This was the part of the club that never changed.
I moved through the garage, boots echoing against the concrete, eyes scanning every project. A half-built Harley sat on the lift, fresh chrome gleaming under the lights. Colt was elbow-deep in the carburetor, grease streaking his arms. Ryder leaned against the workbench, sorting parts with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Morning, Prez,” he called, not looking up.
“Morning.” I called and nodded toward the bike. “She’s coming al
