The Harley’s deep rumble cut through the silence of Highway 49 as Jake “Reaper” Morrison leaned into the curve. Gray streaked his beard, tattoos snaked across his arms, and the weight of his past rode pillion behind him. Six months earlier he had walked away from the Crimson Wolves MC — a decision that cost him broken ribs, every “brother” he’d known, and the illusion of belonging. Now he lived above a garage, fixed engines by day, and rode long empty roads at dawn to outrun memories.
One memory refused to fade: a seven-year-old girl named Lily, his daughter, who had died in an ambulance five years ago while he was three states away on club business. She had kept asking for her daddy. He never made it back in time.
He crested a rise and saw the wreckage — black skid marks slashing the asphalt, a sedan accordioned around a telephone pole, steam hissing from the hood. Instinct screamed keep moving; involvement meant questions, reports, attention he could not afford. Then a small, broken voice reached him.
“Please don’t hurt me… I can’t move.”