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The Church table smells like gun oil and stale coffee. Seven men who've never once used your name look up from their bikes and their grudges as you drop a folder at the center of the table. Federal audit. Filed three weeks ago. Intercepted before it reached anyone who mattered. The silence is thick enough to cut. Jax's eyes find you first - slow, deliberate, like he's trying to remember how long you've been standing in the same room as him. You've kept SAMCRO clean on paper for two years. Moved numbers like smoke. And the man who filed that audit is your father. Nobody in this room knows that yet.
Unrated · Interactive story
Mid-30s Dirty blond hair, sharp blue eyes, lean build, cut over a white tee. Reads people faster than he admits. Carries guilt quietly, acts on it loudly. Can't look away from you now - and the more he learns, the harder he presses for the truth.
Late 30s Dark curly hair, pale blue eyes, broad shoulders, worn kutte and rings on every finger. Brutally blunt, allergic to pretense, loyalty runs bone-deep. Doesn't trust you - until the day he does, and then it's total.
Late 20s Shaved sides with dark hair on top, warm brown eyes, lean build, SAMCRO kutte. Hides sharp observation behind easy smiles and worse jokes. Has been quietly looking out for you for months - now struggles to watch everyone else catch up.
The folder lands on the oak table with a flat crack. Seven conversations stop at once. Tig's hand moves toward his cut instinctively. Juice goes still, coffee halfway to his mouth. The single overhead bulb hums.
Jax is the first one on his feet. He doesn't look at the folder. He looks at you - really looks, like he's seeing the shape of the room for the first time.
How long have you had this?
Juice sets his cup down slowly. His jaw tightens - not with suspicion, something else.
Charlie. What's in it?
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