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“Because what?” he asked, quieter now.
The yard behind him—full of engines, metal, voices—felt distant.
Like it didn’t belong here anymore.
The girl swallowed.
Then looked straight at him.
“He said… you’d understand before I finished the sentence.”
A few of the other bikers laughed under their breath.
It sounded like a joke.
Like a trick.
Like something kids say when they don’t know what they’re doing.
But the man didn’t laugh.
Because he already did understand.
“Who is your father?” he asked.
The girl held the vest tighter.
Like it was the only thing holding her steady.
“He said his name wouldn’t matter,” she replied.
“He said… you’d recognize the mark.”
The biker’s hand moved before he realized it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He took the vest from her.
Turned it over.
And there it was.
Faded. Scratched. Almost gone.
But still there.
Burned into the leather years ago.
A symbol.
Not just any symbol.
His symbol.
The same one he had once sworn no one else would ever wear.
The world didn’t spin.
It didn’t crash.
It just… narrowed.
“Where is he?” the biker asked.
The girl looked down.
Just for a second.
“My daddy… he won’t wake up.”
The words were simple.
Too simple.
The biker’s jaw tightened.