PART 1

My name is Jake Carter. Most people call me Scar. The name came long before the Steel Wolves—before the patches, before the road, before the reputation. It came from the jagged line carved across my face, a reminder that survival isn’t clean, and it sure isn’t pretty. I never tried to hide it. Men like me don’t get that luxury.

I’m the President of the Steel Wolves MC, and that Tuesday night, we weren’t looking for trouble. We were just passing through. Fifty of us packed into Maggie’s Roadhouse on the edge of Columbus, boots dusty, engines ticking as they cooled outside. The place was alive—laughter echoing, plates clanking, stories growing wilder with every retelling. Three days on the road will do that. We were tired, relaxed… exactly where we were supposed to be.

Then the door burst open.

The sound cut through everything like a blade.

A kid stumbled in—seven, maybe eight years old. Skinny, covered in dirt, one knee ripped open with blood running down his shin. But it wasn’t the injuries that hit me. It was his eyes. Wide. Desperate. Hunted.

“Help me!” he screamed. “Please—he’s right behind me!”

The room went dead silent. Not quiet—silent. The kind of silence that settles when something shifts, when instinct takes over and every man in the room feels it at the same time.

The boy didn’t hesitate. He ran straight toward me.

He slammed into my chest, grabbing my jacket like it was the last solid thing in his world. I felt him shaking, hard enough to rattle my ribs.

“Easy,” I said, my voice low. “You’re alright.”

“He’s coming,” the kid whispered. “Please… don’t let him take me.”

And just like that, the night stopped being ordinary.

PART 2