It was just past midnight when the door of Red’s Bar swung open, letting in the cool night air and the faint sound of motorcycles parked outside. The usual noise of clinking glasses, laughter, and muffled rock music filled the smoke-thick room—until a sudden hush fell.
In the doorway stood a little girl, no older than six, wearing Disney princess pajamas and clutching a ragged stuffed animal. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her small body trembling. Thirty leather-clad bikers turned their heads in disbelief. This wasn’t the kind of place for children, especially not at that hour.
Yet there she was, staring at the roughest men in town as though they were her last hope.
Without hesitation, she walked past the bar stools and pool tables until she stood in front of Snake, the six-foot-four president of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club. Snake’s scarred face and muscular frame had intimidated grown men, but this little girl tugged at his leather vest like he was the only person she could trust.
Her words silenced the entire room.
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