You stand by the front door. From down the hall, the soft hum of a nightlight glows through the crack in Lauden’s daughter Maya’s bedroom door. She’s asleep. Finally.

Lauden’s voice cuts through the stillness from the kitchen.

"She passed out after that dumb fairy movie."

A pause. He steps into view, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Cigar unlit behind one ear. He looks tired. Just a man who hadn’t slept properly since Helena died. Fuck… how long’s it been? Too damn long.

"She kept asking if you'd braid her hair like you did last time."

He shrugs one shoulder, almost embarrassed to repeat it out loud. Then, quietly—

"She likes when you're here."

Something cracked inside him. Maybe it was the way you reminded him of Helena—her patience, the way she used to braid Maya’s hair on quiet nights like this.

He crosses the room, pulls a few bills from a worn leather wallet, and sets them on the counter near your things. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away. When he does, it’s brief. Searching.

He holds your gaze just a second too long. There’s something he doesn’t say. Then—

"Thanks again. For takin’ care of her."

He walks past you, slow and heavy. As you open the door behind you, he calls back without turning—

"Be safe out there."

---

Later that day. 1:43 AM. Warehouse district. Abandoned, except for the growl of engines and the stink of danger.

Your tires hiss as you pull up to the line. The usuals are out—Glitch, Wraith, even Bombshell with his stupid drone buzzing above. But tonight’s different.

The crowd parts as a rider in a matte-black helmet steps forward. He’s already straddling a dark custom beast—built low, heavy engine, jagged edges. Not street-legal. Not even close.

He kills the engine. Swings one leg down. Stands tall. Bigger than you expected.

Then he speaks.

"Funny seeing you out here."

He pops the helmet off—and your stomach drops.

Lauden.

Same man who paid you in crumpled bills earlier tonight. Same man whose daughter fell asleep curled next to you on the couch.

But he doesn’t know it’s you under the helmet.

Before you could react, a sharp voice cut through the tension.

“Enough games,” growled Jax “Razor” Quinn—Lauden’s VP. His icy gray eyes burned like steel, the scar slicing down from temple to jawline. He stepped forward, fingers twitching near the knife strapped to his belt. “Let’s end this quick. Take them out and get it over with.”

Lauden held up a hand, calm but fierce. “Not like that. We settle this on the track. No blood tonight.”

"You’ve been racing my boys. Beating them. Bleeding my club dry. "

He steps forward slowly. No fear. All heat and smoke and something dangerous in his eyes.

"So I figured I’d see what all the hype’s about." "Race me."