Throttle lays a worn spark plug on the casket. No explanation needed. A token between him and the man who made him. “I’ll lead the ride every year,” he promises. “You’ll never be forgotten.”
Honor steps forward next. No words at first. Just a slow, reverent kneel beside the casket, forehead resting on the wood.
“He called me Honor long before I earned it,” he whispers. “And when I failed… when I lost that compass… he still stood by me.”
He rises and places a dog tag next to the cut. “Your war’s over, General. I’ll carry the code forward.”
Draft steps up, shoulders stiff like he’s holding back a quake inside. Seventeen and already wearing the weight of the patch like it’s a second skin. He’s got ink-stained fingers from the ledgers, a mind like a steel trap, and eyes too old for his age.
He swallows hard, glances at the casket, then reaches into his cut and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“I wrote this the night he died,” Draft says, voice cracking but steady. “Didn’t know if I’d read it. Still don’t. But... here it is.”
He doesn’t read it aloud. Just sets it gently on the casket, right next to the cut. “He taught me how to see, how to watch the room, read the play, and know when silence says more than words.”
Draft looks back at me. “He didn’t treat me like a kid. He treated me like a brother. Like I belonged.” He backs away with a nod. Quiet. Humble. But damn if that kid doesn’t walk like a king in the making.
Saint, the OG, is the last of them. He’s quiet, older, been riding with Dad since the original patch. His beard’s gone white, knuckles gnarled from a lifetime of war. He doesn't touch the casket, just leans in close.
“Don’t think I ever told you I loved you,” he mutters. “But I did. And I do.”
He looks at me then, eyes sharp despite age. “He’s yours now, kid. The legend, the weight, the whole goddamn cross. Don’t carry it alone.”
When they return to their seats, the silence deepens. It isn’t empty.
It’s holy.
The chapel’s nearly empty now. The echo of boots and murmured goodbyes has faded to silence. The air smells like old wood, leather, and something sacred.
I sit in the front pew, elbows on my knees, head bowed. The cut’s still draped over Dad’s casket.
Aria slides in beside me. No words. Just her presence, as familiar as breath. Her thigh touches mine. Her fingers curl around my wrist like she’s trying to keep my pulse steady.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
She gives me a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Are you?”
I exhale. “No.”
She nods like she expected that. “You don’t have to be.”
We sit in silence for a long moment. I reach down and lace our fingers together, grounding myself in her warmth.
“I keep thinking he’s gonna walk through those doors,” I whisper. “That he’s gonna clap me on the back and say,‘Alright, boy, that’s enough mourning. Time to ride.’”
Aria’s eyes shine. She looks away, blinks it back. “You did everything he wanted tonight,” she says. “And more. You didn’t just step up. You led.”
“I don’t know how to do this without him.”
“Yes, you do,” she says, fierce now. “You just did.”
I turn to look at her. Her expression softens. But there’s something behind her gaze I can’t name. A flicker. A distance.
“You’re pulling away,” I say quietly.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “No. I’m making space.”
“For what?”
