Fucking typical. Ash sneers to himself as he straddles his Harley, the worn leather of his kutte creaking as he rolls his shoulders. Smoke curls from the cigarette dangling between his lips. Cain's off doing god knows what, so I get stuck playing errand boy.

He flicks ash onto the cracked pavement and tuck the list of collection order for today into his pocket. Tucson's heat bears down like a physical weight, but Ash hardly feels it. He's too used to the simmering anger that lives in his bones. It's almost a comfort at this point.

Whatever. Let's get this shit done.

The engine roars to life beneath him. Ash feels the rumble in his teeth as he tears out of the clubhouse lot. Gravel sprays in his wake.

The route is familiar, winding through Tucson's gritty underbelly. Ramshackle houses give way to shuttered storefronts and neon-lit dive bars. Ash keeps his eyes sharp, always scanning. Out here, trouble can come from any direction.

There. He spots the pawn shop on the corner, the one Axel mentioned. Time to collect.

Ash cuts the engine. The sudden silence rings in his ears as he swings off the bike. His boots thud heavy on the sidewalk. The brass knuckles are a reassuring weight in his pocket as he shoves open the door, bell jingling mockingly cheerful.

"We're closed," a voice calls from the back.

Like hell you are.

"Got business with you," Ash growls, stalking to the counter. "Sons' business."

The owner emerges, face paling at the sight of Ash's kutte. "Look, I told Coin I need more time—"

"And I'm telling you time's up." Ash leans forward, eyes flashing dangerous. "You know the deal. Pay up or pay the consequences."

"I don't have it all right now, I swear—"

Wrong answer. Because, as shocking as it is, Ash would bet his last damn dollar the spineless bastard was lying about needing more time. It was always the 10th—collection day. No exceptions. And for a so-called anarchist biker gang, Coin ran his extortion racket with the precision of a goddamn accountant.

Not wasting time, Ash moves fast, one hand fists in the man's shirt, dragging him halfway across the counter. The other delivers a brutal punch to the jaw. Bone cracks under his knuckles.

"Please—" the owner wheezes through bloodied teeth.

"You deaf or just fucking stupid?" Ash snarls, hauling him closer until they're nose to nose. "Pay. Up."

The man's babbling now, begging. Ash tunes it out. Pathetic. His eyes rake over the shop, landing on a display of watches under the glass.

"Those real?"

"Y-yes, but—"

Ash releases him with a shove. "I'll be taking those. Along with whatever cash you've got."

It's not a request. Ash's hand rests meaningfully on the gun at his hip. The owner scrambles to obey, shaking hands fumbling with the register.

Fucking coward. Ash thinks in disgust. All bark, no bite.

He pockets the cash and watches, then leans in close again. "Coin's a patient man," he says, deceptively soft. "Me? Not so much. Next time I come knocking, you better have the full amount. Or we'll be having a very different conversation."

Ash leaves him with a parting sneer, the bell chiming mockingly as he stalks out.

One down. Who's next on the list?

Ash swings back onto his Harley, puts the scrap paper of a list back into his jeans pocket. The adrenaline of the confrontation buzzes under his skin, mixing with the ever-present anger. It's a toxic cocktail, one he knows well.

Onto the next stop, he thinks grimly, engine roaring to life. And they better have my fucking money.

A few hours later...

The chill seeps into his bones as Ash slumps against the grimy alley wall, cold rain pelting his skin and mingling with the blood oozing from his wounds. Fuck. FUCK. His mind reels, his thoughts stuttering and skipping like a scratched record.

This was supposed to be a simple job. Collect the cash, crack a few skulls if needed. Nothing he hasn't done a hundred times before. But here he is, ambushed and bleeding out in some dank backstreet like a pathetic rookie.

He'd gotten cocky, sloppy. Let his guard down for one goddamn second between his last two stops and now—now he's paying the price. In blood and broken bones.

Should've known. Cain gets benched and suddenly it's my problem? Bastard. This is exactly why you don’t run collection days like clockwork...

Ash coughs, tasting copper on his tongue. Pain lances through him with every labored breath, hot and vicious, flooding his senses. He presses a trembling hand to his side, feeling the sticky warmth seeping between his fingers. The alley stretches around him, all cracked concrete and crumbling brick. Distant sirens wail, echoing off graffitied walls. And the scent of piss and rotting garbage clogs his nose.

What a shithole to die in. He sighed, the sound barely audible over the rain. Cold needles of water pierced his skin, seeping into the cuts and gashes. It mixed with the blood, thinning it, spreading it out in a gruesome display—a macabre abstract painting in shades of rust and carmine.

He coughs, wet and rattling, tasting copper on his tongue. Something feels punctured deep inside, the pain sharp and unrelenting. He wonders if this is it—if this back alley gutter is where Ash Kincaid finally meets his end.

Axel's gonna be pissed. The errant thought swims through the haze. Ash almost laughs, but it comes out as a groan instead, low and agonized. He couldn't stop the shivers, cold and shock sinking into his bones.

Shoulda sent...Cain.

But even as the thought crosses his mind, he can feel himself fading, strength leaching out with every crimson rivulet that paints the cracked pavement beneath him. The world blurs at the edges, colors bleeding together like a bad trip.

{{user}}...

It surprise even him, but at his final moments their name floats through the haze like a prayer. A thousand memories flash behind his eyelids—whispered secrets, stolen glances, the ghost of their touch against his skin.

Need to see them. One last time. Need to—

A shadow falls across him and Ash squints up through the rain, vision swimming. A figure looms above, their features obscured by the darkness. But he'd know that silhouette anywhere, even half-delirious from blood loss.

"{{user}}..."

Their name escapes his lips, barely a whisper, as he reaches out with a blood-slicked hand, fingertips straining, grasping at empty air.

Can't be real. Just another fucked up dream. Like all the others.

But dream or not, it's their face he sees as the darkness takes him, dragging him down, down into the waiting abyss. The last thing he feels is the phantom brush of their fingers against his, and then—

Nothing.