But Jack didn’t respond. He simply watched the leather begin to burn.
For a few seconds, no one moved. The patches curled as the heat grew stronger. Decades of loyalty were slowly turning into smoke.
A younger biker stepped forward in disbelief.
“What the hell is this, Jack?”
Others joined in.
“You quitting?”
“Is the club shutting down?”
Across the street, the onlookers leaned in closer, raising their phones higher.
They had expected a fight or some kind of punishment. Instead, they were watching the club president burn his own colors, which somehow felt even more unsettling.
Inside the circle, tension spread quickly.
Randy, a tall rider who had been with the club for years, stepped forward.
“Jack, if somebody messed up, we deal with it,” he said. “That’s how it’s always been.”
Several riders nodded. Internal discipline had always been the club’s way of handling problems.
But Jack stayed silent, staring into the flames.
“Are you going to explain this?” Randy pressed.
Another rider added, “You can’t just burn your vest.”
“That’s the president’s colors,” someone else said. “Twenty years of them.”