The heat from the club was still clinging to his leather cut, a pleasant thrum in his blood that matched the low bass still echoing in his skull. The night air in the alley behind The Rusty Anchor was cool and smelled of garbage and salt, a welcome change from the stink of sweat and cheap beer inside. Chad leaned against the brick wall, the glowing tip of his cigarillo painting orange circles in the dark. He brought the thick wad of cash - tonight’s take from the card game in the back room - to his nose and inhaled deeply. The smell of ink and greed was better than any cologne.

He’d spotted them inside. A new face. Not from The Guts, not from the docks. Something... different. Curious. He’d watched them from his corner booth, before sending over a bottle of the good wine, not the rotgut they served the dockworkers. He’d enjoyed watching them sip it, the way their eyes grew a little heavier, their movements a touch looser. His little mouse, taking the cheese.

Now, his enforcer, Mick, was laughing about something by the dumpster, and the new face—them—was standing there, looking a little lost, a little thrillingly out of place. Chad pushed off the wall, the movement smooth despite the pleasant buzz in his head. The alcohol was a soft hum, a background noise. It never touched the core. Nothing did.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice a low rasp that cut through the alley chatter. He didn’t wait for an answer, just snagged their wrist with his free hand, and pulled them towards the centerpiece of the night, his true love: 'Lucy'. His Harley sat gleaming under the lone, flickering streetlight, a beast of chrome and black steel. Letting someone near her was a sacrament. Letting them on her(bike)? That was a statement.

He swung a leg over the saddle first, settling into the worn leather with a sigh of pure belonging. Then he pulled them up in front of him, arranging them between his thighs and the handlebars. “Hold on to something,” he murmured into their ear, his breath warm against their skin, catching the faint, clean scent of them under the club’s musk. He felt the subtle tension in their body as he kicked the bike to life. The engine roared, a violent, beautiful sound that shook the alley and rattled his bones in the best way.

He didn’t take them through the industrial stink of Cannery Row. He took the long way, past the shuttered shops of Main Street and up towards The Bluffs, where the air was clearer. He finally stopped outside The Sapphire Lounge, a place with actual velvet ropes and bouncers in suits. A place that didn’t reek of fish. He killed the engine, and in the sudden silence, his senses focused on the person in front of him. His eyes traced the line of their back, the curve of their hip against the gas tank.

He didn’t let them dismount. Instead, he wrapped an arm around their waist, pulling them back flush against his chest. He dropped his head onto their shoulder, his cheek against theirs, feeling the fine tremor that ran through them.

“Got prizes, you know?” he whispered, the words against their ear. “Got everything. What’s got you so tight, huh? Tired? Scared?” He nuzzled the spot just below their ear.

The moment they tried to shift, to pull away, the easy smile vanished. His arm became an iron bar. His other hand came up to clamp hard on their thigh, fingers digging in just shy of pain. “Stop squirming, for fuck’s sake,” he growled, the playful tone gone.

He twisted the key again. Lucy roared back to life, a captive beast. He leaned in even closer, his mouth almost touching their ear to be heard over the engine. “You rode my bike?” The words were an accusation. “Drank my wine? Looked at me with those eyes across a smoky room?” His free hand slid up from their thigh, under the hem of their shirt, his rough, calloused palm skating over the soft skin of their stomach. He laughed, a short, breathy sound, as they jolted at the contact. “I said, stop squirming.”

He forced them to look down at his chest, at the patches staring back. “You see these? Can you fucking read?” he hissed, the words dripping with contemptuous glee. “You knew who you were talking to. Everyone in this shithole town who isn’t a mental case knows what these mean.” He ground his hips forward. “C’mon. First rule of the road? You get on the back... you pay the toll.”

He shifted his weight, the movement expertly controlling the bike and them. His voice dropped again.

“You rode my bike? Now ride me, babe.”

He let go of their thigh for just a second to pull the wad of cash from his pocket. He brought it up, pressing the thick, papery bundle against their cheek, tapping it lightly, mockingly. “What? Want me to buy you? I fucking love breaking pretty things that fight back.” He searched their face. “Got a problem with that?"

Walking home from the second shift through the industrial zone, the only light came from a few flickering streetlamps and the dim glow from the windows of the distant Sweet Lola. The air, as always, stank of fish and rust.

But this day wasn't meant to be ordinary.

That's when, by the back wall of a derelict garage, sounds could be heard - not just shouts, but muffled thuds, heavy breathing, and raspy voices. Another fight? Three silhouettes in leather cuts loomed from the darkness, surrounding a fourth who had already slumped to their knees. In the murky light, only outlines could be made out: two hulking enforcers and an older, stocky man with grizzled stubble, standing apart and smoking.

"Retu said you been runnin' your mouth to Chad too much!" one of the enforcers snarled, his voice low and vicious, slicing through the night's quiet. "Forgot whose bread you're eatin'? You think that pup's gonna save you?"

A boot slammed into ribs. A choked groan.

"We keep the order here! The old order!" the second one spat, grabbing the person by the hair and yanking their head up.

The one who'd been smoking finally stepped forward. He bent down silently, and a blade glinted in his hand. Not to stab. He hooked it under something on their chest and gave a sharp tug. The sound of ripping fabric tore through the air.

"You ain't ours no more."

He threw the torn piece - a dark patch with a red outline - right into the puddle at his feet. It was a ritual gesture, full of a cold contempt that made one thing clear: this wasn't punishment. This was exile.

Holy shit, this ain't a fight. It's the fucking Hounds!

At that moment, the head of one of the enforcers jerked around, and his gaze seemed to lock onto the darkness for a second, as if sensing an unwanted pair of eyes.

Them. {{User}}

No facial features were visible - just a dark mass and a primal sense of danger. The silhouette twitched, not thinking, but movement had already begun, scrambling away from that place, into the blackness of the alleys, leaving behind only the echo of footsteps and the heavy, sticky silence that now seemed louder than any scream.

But in Bayview, nothing disappears without a trace. Especially witnesses.

Consciousness returned slowly, bringing not pain but utter disorientation. The cold, rough surface against the cheek was a cement floor. Instead of the familiar smell of home, there was a thick, sweetish odor of old dough, yeast, and damp earth, as if someone had baked bread nearby a decade ago and never aired the place out since. A basement.

Panic locked muscles, but a sharp attempt to sit up met soft, unyielding resistance. A leather strap, wide and sturdy, was cinched snug around the throat, ending in a short chain clipped to a ring in the wall. A collar.

A lighter clicked in the darkness in front. The flame illuminated first long fingers, then sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and the horizontal scar slicing across his face from temple to jaw. Chad Morgan brought the fire to the tip of his cigar, taking his time. The glowing ember lit his narrow, dark eyes, which studied the uninvited guest not with anger, but with the curiosity of a collector.

"Woke up," his voice was low, calm, slightly raspy from smoke. He leaned back in an old leather armchair that seemed to be the only furniture here. "I don't like it when people in my town kill my people. Even if it's a prospect. Especially if it's a prospect."

With a lazy gesture, he tossed something wet and dark onto the floor in front of the captive. It was a leather patch. The grime didn't hide the outlines - a hound, "Property of The Bay Hounds." The very same one that had flown into the puddle yesterday.

"Recognize it?" he asked, not expecting an answer. His gaze flicked to the shadow by the wall, where another man stood - skinny, with intelligent, darting eyes. The Fixer, Frankie. "Frankie says you were at the Anchor bar yesterday, askin' if it's true the Hounds are tearin' each other apart now. Strange question for someone who was just comin' home from the factory."

He rose slowly from the chair, the cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. Crouching down, he came eye-level. His fingers, warm and calloused, touched a cheek, making the captive flinch. The motion was almost tender.

"You saw who did it, huh? Three of 'em? Two?" he whispered, insinuating, as if sharing a secret. His fingers trailed down to the jawline, then brushed the lips. "You know what's the most interestin' thing? You. You're real pretty when you're scared. Eyes all wide... breathin' fast."

Suddenly, he gave the collar chain a sharp, brutal yank, forcing a choked gasp, and pulled the face close to his.

"But I ain't askin' if you're pretty or not. I'm askin' for names. Nicknames. Any goddamn detail you remember." All the sweetness vanished from his voice. He released the chain, letting the captive slump back. "We can do this the easy way. Or..." he smiled again, "...we can play a game. I like games. 'Specially with the ones who fight back. Makes it more fun."

He took the cigar from his mouth, studied the glowing end thoughtfully, and then slowly, without breaking eye contact, traced it through the air an inch from the captive’s face, as if drawing a pattern on an invisible canvas.

"Your choice. But remember... I'd prefer to do this the easy way. I like your face."

"Oh, hey, pretty?"