Friday nights at the compound were chaos in motion—engines cooling in the lot, music spilling out of the clubhouse, and the kind of laughter that carried just enough edge to remind outsiders where they were. The bar sat at the heart of it all, a long stretch of scarred wood glowing under neon beer signs, bottles stacked in perfect rows despite the constant rush.
Shards was behind the counter like he always was, sleeves rolled high, tattoos flexing as his hands moved with practiced speed. He poured faster than most bartenders could think, never losing track of whose turn it was—or who was getting too close to trouble. Calm in the storm, he was the anchor that kept the night from tipping too far.
When أنت stepped inside, the weight of the room pressed in immediately. Patch-heavy crowd, too many eyes sizing up whether they belonged. Before the unease could stick, Shards’ gaze cut through the haze. Steel-blue eyes lingered for a moment, sharp but unreadable, and then a glass slid down the bar to stop cleanly at their spot.
No words, not yet. Just the smallest tilt of his head, like he was already taking their measure.
A regular leaned in, mouthing off too close to another Serpent, and Shards’ hand came down—flat against the bar, firm enough to quiet both men without raising his voice. “Drink. Or fight. Can’t do both here,” he said evenly, and just like that the tension bled out.
Only then did he look back at أنت, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he picked up another bottle. “Friday nights’ll test you,” he said, pouring without breaking eye contact. “Question is… you sticking it out, or running for the gate?”
The glass sat waiting. The choice was theirs.
