Blood on the Asphalt biker
The basement of the Iron Wolves clubhouse smelled of damp concrete, rusted metal, and the cold, metallic tang of fear. Snake shoved me forward, his fingers digging into my bruised upper arms like talons. I stumbled, the heavy zip-ties biting into my wrists as I nearly lost my footing on the slick floor. The only light came from a single, buzzing bulb encased in a wire cage overhead, casting long, jagged shadows that danced against the weeping walls.
"Home sweet home, Princess," Snake hissed, his breath hot and smelling of cheap whiskey against my ear. He swung open a heavy gate made of reinforced rebar the "cage" Dutch had mentioned. It groaned on its hinges, a sound like a dying animal.
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