I stand. “Then what is this?”
He reaches into his vest and pulls out a fresh patch. It’s heavy in his hands, black and green, the Saints skull gleaming under the fluorescents.
“This is yours,” he says. “But if you’re gonna wear it, you need a name.”
I swallow. “You sure?”
“Already got the vote. It was unanimous.”
“What is it?”
He smiles, just a flicker. “Steel.”
“…Steel?” I blink. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Because you bend for no one, you hold us up. And because God help the man who thinks he can break you.”
I take the patch. It feels heavier than it should. Or maybe I do.
“You earned it, Isaiah,” he says, voice lower now. “Don’t ever forget where you came from. Or why we ride.”
I grip the patch tight, jaw set. “I won’t.”
He turns to leave but stops halfway. “And Isaiah?”
“Yeah?”
“You carry yourself differently now. Not just like a Saint.” He tilts his head, eyes dark. “You carry yourself likehim.Like Steel Saint.”
A beat of silence passes between us, stretching long. “He wouldn’t want his name forgotten,” I say.
Dad nods once. “Then don’t forget to live up to it.”
I’m the last one at the bar that night. The place hums low, like it’s remembering. My father’s words still echo in the cracked glass of the back bar.“You’re Steel now.”
I find a Sharpie half-buried under an old coaster. Uncap it. I trace the Sharpie messages behind the bottles.
Saint’s Ghost Still Rides.
I scan the wall. Thousands of words. Declarations. Confessions. Final fuck-yous.
I find Bookie’s name with a date circled in black. Someone carved a crown beside it.
I lift the Sharpie. Hover. But put it back. Not yet. Not until I earn what he died for.
But I will.
This is just the start.
EIGHT
WAR COUNCIL
ISAIAH STEEL KING
We’re gathered at the long table. The air’s thick with smoke and tension. Patches sit in their respective seats, arms crossed, waiting for a verdict none of us wants to say aloud. The only one missing is Dog, Dad’s SAA. Dad leans forward, forearms braced on the scarred table like he wants to break it in half.
Aria’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair swept over one shoulder like a curtain shielding her thoughts. She's in a slate-gray blazer over a white tank, jeans tight on long legs that carry more authority than half the room. She doesn’t speak yet, just watches. Her blue eyes scan the room like a lawyer clocking motive and weakness in a jury box.
