The Black Talon yard was already full when we rolled in.
Engines idled low, rumbling like something alive beneath the gravel. Leather creaked. Metal clicked. The air felt territorial—thick with dominance, challenge, and the kind of silence that didn't come from peace, but from waiting.
The smell of exhaust and oil hit hard. Along with sweat baked into old leather, the faint metallic tang of weapons kept close. Threat hung heavy in the air. It was a whole vibe and part of what made the MC so seductive.
Dust particles hung in the air, kicked up by boots that had already claimed their ground.
Bikes lined the yard in two clean rows—Black Talon on one side, Ashwood on the other.
The clubs did not mix. And they were not friendly.
As Black Talon made very clear, our presence was being tol
