“No…” he whispered. “That’s not possible.”
The girl flinched at his reaction, clutching the vest tighter. “He told me… if anything happened… I should find you.”
The bikers around them shifted uneasily. They knew that name.
Everyone did.
Because that man — her father — had died years ago.
Or at least… that’s what they were told.
The leader looked down at the vest again, his hands no longer steady. His fingers traced the hidden mark — a symbol only their inner circle used. A mark that was never supposed to leave their world.
“He’s gone,” one of the bikers muttered. “We buried him.”
The girl shook her head immediately, tears spilling faster. “No! He was there… he was with me… but he was sick… he couldn’t move… he just kept saying your name…”
The man’s breathing grew heavier.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
She hesitated. Fear flickered across her face.
Then quietly: “At home… but he won’t wake up anymore…”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the leader made a decision.
“Get the bikes,” he ordered sharply.
Engines roared to life again, but this time, there was no laughter. No arrogance.
Only tension.
He looked down at the girl, his voice softer now.
“If that really is him…” he said, almost to himself, “…then someone lied to all of us.”
The girl didn’t understand.
But she saw it in his eyes.
Fear.
Not of her.
But of the truth waiting at the end of that road
