Chapter 3: The Prospect and the Lighter
In the corner, on a tattered velvet couch, a young prospect named Jax was flipping a silver Zippo lighter. Click-flick, click-flick. The metallic rhythm was the only sound in the room. He leaned back, a sneer plastered on his face.
"You’re lost, lady," Jax laughed, his voice cracking with unearned bravado. "This is a private club. You wander in here, you don't walk out."
The woman didn't blink. She turned her head slowly, her eyes settling on Jax.
They were cold. Not the cold of a winter day, but the cold of a deep, dark ocean. Jax kept flicking his lighter, trying to maintain his mask of indifference, but his hand began to tremble. Click-flick.
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"You think you’re untouchable because of that patch, boy?" she asked, her voice a low, gravelly whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the warehouse. "You think because you can hurt a girl, you’re a man?"
Jax tried to speak, to make a joke, to find a comeback, but the air in his lungs vanished. He looked into her eyes and saw a ghost story he’d heard whispered around campfires—the story of the woman who had walked away from the life, the one who didn't fight for a club, but for her own blood.
