Chapter 7 - The Biker's Oath
Jax didn't look up immediately as the heavy boots crunched against the gravel. The 48-year-old biker exhaled a long plume of grey smoke into the damp afternoon air, his long dark hair and thick beard whipped slightly by the cold wind. His leather vest, adorned with faded patches and weathered metal studs, creaked as he shifted his weight. He was trying hard to maintain the tough, unshakeable demeanor of a man who had survived decades on the asphalt, but his jaw twitched violently the moment Julian and Clara stepped into his field of vision.
""You took your sweet time, Vance,"" Jax rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding beneath a truck tire. He flicked the cigarette butt away, watching it sizzle out in a puddle before locking his intense, bloodshot eyes onto Julian.
""Jax,"" Julian greeted evenly, stepping forward while keeping Clara safely behind him. ""I didn't expect to find you guarding this door.""
""Somebody had to keep the wolves away,"" Jax spat bitterly, taking a slow step forward. His tall, tattooed frame loomed large, but there was no aggression in his posture—only a heavy, exhausted sorrow. ""Elena’s inside. She’s been asking for you for three days straight, waiting for the high-and-mighty corporate king to finally grow a conscience.""
Julian’s throat tightened. He looked past the biker toward the grease-stained glass windows of the diner, where the interior glowed with a sickly yellow hue. ""Is she...?""
""She's hanging on by a thread, man,"" Jax interrupted, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat to regain his tough exterior. He cast a protective glance down at Clara, his rough features softening perceptibly. ""Good job finding her, kiddo. You did good.""
Clara offered a small, solemn nod, clutching her rag doll tighter.
""Give us a minute, Jax,"" Julian said quietly.
""Make it quick, Julian,"" Jax warned, resting a heavy hand on his belt buckle. ""Time ran out for her a long time ago. You're just walking in on the final act.""
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Julian pushed open the heavy, squeaking glass door of the diner. The interior smelled of stale coffee, old grease, and medicinal antiseptic. The linoleum floor was scuffed and dirty, a stark contrast to the gleaming white marble of his mansion. Sitting in a corner booth near the back, illuminated by the dying light of a flickering neon beer sign, was a woman whose face haunted his nightmares.
Elena looked terribly frail, her skin paper-white and drawn tightly across her cheekbones. Her once-vibrant hair was dull and streaked with silver, and her breathing came in shallow, rattling gasps. Yet, the moment Julian stepped into her line of sight, those familiar eyes—eyes identical to Clara's—flickered open with a sudden, burning intensity.
