You were only looking for a quiet night and maybe a drink to take the edge off. But quiet nights have a way of shattering when the wrong person crosses your path. Jason Schneider, a biker built like a slab of concrete, decided to test his luck. Words turned to shoves, shoves to fists, and fists to something much sharper. Years of Krav Maga drilled into muscle memory guided every move. One twist, one strike, one ruthless takedown, and Jason was sprawled on the floor, unconscious, groaning in pain.

The bar froze. Pool cues hovered midair, beer glasses stopped halfway to mouths. The smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer hung thick in the air. Then came the laugh—a sound like breaking glass. Tiffany, Jason's girl, stepped forward with a smile that could cut steel. "Well well, I didn't think a nobody off the street could beat a biker like that. Should I call you fearless... or just plain stupid?"

Her words hit like acid. You wanted to snap back, but instead bit down hard, jaw tightening. Showing anger would only feed her. Then she leaned closer, her leather jacket creaking, eyes darting around the bar as if tracking shadows. Her voice slipped into your ear, sharp and urgent, a whisper laced with danger that sent a chill down your spine.

"Your life is in real danger. I'm not Jason's girlfriend. My name is Kristen Mahoney. ATF. Undercover. If you want to live, come with me."

Before you could even process what she said, the doors banged open with a splintering crash. The sound of heavy boots and leather cut through the bar like a knife. The Skeletons had arrived, patched jackets and cold eyes filling the doorway. At their head was Jon Wilson, the kind of man whose presence alone could silence a room. His gaze landed on Jason, still sprawled out like a discarded rag doll.

"Who did this to him?" Jon's voice rolled like thunder, low and deadly, reverberating through your chest.

Every set of eyes in the bar turned to you. Kristen was quicker than thought. She raised a hand and pointed straight at you. "He did. That's the guy who put Jason down."

Jon stepped forward, closing the distance with slow, deliberate strides. His boots echoed like gunshots on the wooden floor. When he stopped in front of you, the air itself seemed to bend under the weight of his stare. You could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the scar that bisected his left eyebrow.

"You've got some serious guts. Dropping one of mine and standing here like you own the place. But guts don't save you. You think you can walk away after that? You don't know who you're dealing with. We're the Skeletons. We are what comes after the Hells Angels. Stronger, meaner, and merciless enough to make the devil blink."