— Bonus —
Three Months After the Explosion

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H A N

The front doors of my grandmother's convenience store swung open with the chiming of a bell.

Watching among the deserted aisles, I tossed away a can of wet cat food as a mop of dusty-white hair entered my sight. Walking in with a glossy helmet tucked under his arm and a punchable smirk sprawled lazily across his pale face, the newcomer's blue eyes twinkled with an almost-certain desire for chaos.

Chains.

A Stray Dog—and the newfound bane of my existence.

"How's it going, Cumshot?" he said as he entered, greeting the black-furred cat that'd approached to snuggle up against his hard-topped boots. Yet another creature plaguing my existence, if I was being honest.

"Fuckass," I grumbled in correction.

Ridiculous name, even for a pest like this.

"Hey, man—" Chains put his hands up in mock surrender— "what you get up to after hours is your own damn business."

Just then, he spotted the elderly woman hunched over behind the counter, and his face lit up like a lightbulb.

"Yo! What's up, Mrs J?"

My grandmother lifted a wrinkled chin at him, her tired disposition hardly welcoming. "Chains," she muttered with a minor accent. "Always a pleasure. I assume you're here for my grandson?"

"Sure am," he replied with a cheery salute. "We're just going on a little ride today."

"Oh, how I wish I could believe that."

I swallowed tightly.

If she knew I was staring at her, she wouldn't return my gaze. As expected. It'd been two weeks and four days since she'd discovered the truth about my face. The truth about my scars, the truth about my many lengthy disappearances, and the truth about my grim job beyond the convenience store.

The conversation was still fresh in my mind. We'd been sitting together, having dinner in her home, when I'd finally brought up the topic. I could still remember the tears welling in her eyes when I showed her my full face, as well as the sobs that racked her throat as I confessed everything that had happened to me.

Almost everything.

Needless to say, my grandmother hadn't looked me in the eyes in two weeks and four days.

She thinks of me as a criminal. With total certainty, I'd thought, She doesn't recognize me anymore.

And I hadn't even told her the full truth so far—not completely. There were still things that she didn't know. Most of which involved Midas, whose name still couldn't come to my lips without bile following it.

She also didn't know the truth about her accident. I still hadn't been able to communicate that particular segment of information yet.

She's been terrified enough.

"Oo-kay." Stiff like a board, Chains chuckled in an awkward fashion. "I'm sensing some serious familial tension here and it's stirring up a lot of yucky feelings. Let's get going before I start breaking out in hives."

He was already strolling out before I could protest. With an exhale, I turned to my grandmother.

She still wasn't looking at me.

Watching her methodically pick through the coins on her counter, I swallowed down my shame and tried to maintain a steady voice. "I won't be gone long."

Too far detached from my words, the elderly woman replied in perfect Mandarin.

"Just... go, Jianyu."

===

Gravel kicked into the air as the oversized wheel of my gunmetal Hayabusa skidded to a halt on the side of a bone-dry road.

Parked just ahead on a monstrous Ducati was the new leader of the Stray Dogs Motorcycle Club. Undocking his head from the cusp of a tinted helmet, alabaster locks of hair spilled out in a messy heap, skimming the ragged collar of his patched vest. He strung his gear over one of the handlebars and turned to smirk me with his ridiculous, overcrowded piercings glinting in the morning sunlight.

What a clown.

He'd asked for us to go on a ride today. Insisted, in more accurate terms. Apparently it was imperative that we see each other as soon as possible, and he'd sent a message to my phone containing nothing but cryptic demands and a very long chain of indecipherable emoticons. At seven in the morning.

Insufferable runt, I'd thought.

And my mood worsened when his notifications continued. More emoticons, more two-word texts, more incessant buzzing until I eventually replied just so he'd shut himself up and fuck the hell off.

He'd been pulling these stunts for the last two weeks.

It turned out that becoming a pledge was my worst decision yet. I was starting to wonder if the word itself meant dedicated bitch, because I'd practically become a servant to his bidding. Whatever Chains needed, I was now there for every beck and call. His every minuscule whim was mine to obey.

He called me at two in the morning. He called me if he needed his motorcycles washed, and when he needed a food delivery driver. He even called me just to stay updated on my movements. And sometimes just to irritate me on purpose.

The bastard was getting on my every last nerve and he knew it.

Considering his entourage of loyal followers and my current status as a lone wolf, I wasn't capable of doing anything to call him out or put him in line. For now, I'd become his lap dog. Midas being dead meant that I had very few options in terms of leverage. I did want to kill this Stray Dog. And I could do it, just as naturally as breathing—but some frustrating little voice in my head knew this was for the best.

Being an errand runner for the biggest biker club in Boston was a million percent better than being Midas's on-call slave.

My neck froze over at the thought.

Chains hadn't pressured me on that topic—yet. Despite his clear commitment to making my life miserable, he'd been giving me time to grow accustomed to my new routine. One without Midas's blackmail. But I also knew that this biker's patience wasn't limitless. One day soon enough, he'd start to chip away at that history with his never-ending questions, and use me to broaden his knowledge of Midas's twisted conspiracies.

Unfortunately for him, there was nothing worth knowing. That bastard was a sadist, not a single thing more and not a fraction less. I'd known it from the very first night that he'd cornered my seventeen-year-old self in the alley behind our convenience store—and I'd been tortured by that sadism every day since.

Regardless, I would've sooner bit off my own tongue than let this clueless Stray Dog find out about the things he made me do or the abuse I suffered under his hands.

He's dead and killing him felt like a dream.

Gesturing me over, Chains hopped off his beast in one deliberate movement and confidently approached the front walkway of the house we'd arrived here for.

My lips pursed at the sight.

I don't recognize where we are.

"Looks rough, doesn't it?" he announced, whilst I dislodged myself from my own helmet.

Raised flesh contracting as I squinted against the glaring sun, it took a moment for my trimmed vision to focus. Blinking repeatedly, I stared forward, unsure of what to look for in the scene lying ahead.

Rough was certainly a descriptor.

Among other words like shabby, neglected, and worn, the two-story house before us rested in a decaying state. Its overgrown lawn was littered with debris and the carcasses of decades-old furniture. Weeds had sprouted through cracks in the driveway. Dust had settled on the windows, leaves had blown over the front porch, and the stained mailbox was overflowing with unread letters. Something about the place stirred regretful sensations in my chest.

It felt as though there should've been a family here. Parents, children, perhaps even a pet or two—but there was nothing. No energy. No color. No life.

Even the plants look drained.

"Yeap," said Chains, stretching out to pop his tattooed knuckles. "Take it all in. You'll get used to the charm soon enough."

"What is this place?" It came like a demand.

The biker shrugged, admiring our scenery with a knowing edge in his grey-blue stare. When he spoke, his voice was marred with nostalgia.

"The first goddamn house where I ever felt understood."

He let go of a tight breath. Then, after a moment of quiet reflection, he elaborated, "Growing up I was passed around different foster homes—hopping between picture-perfect families that couldn't deal with my shenanigans, and weren't equipped for the challenges that came with raising a difficult kid."

Tragic tale. My problem how?

Considering our turbulent history, I didn't think he and I were on familiar enough terms to be discussing each other's miserable upbringings. But I didn't interrupt him. This asshole liked to hear himself speak, so perhaps it was smarter to hold my tongue.

Chains was still ranting.

"I mean, I was born to a bunch of heroin addicts in a run-down trailer park, for God's sake—so you can imagine that my social skills weren't really up to scratch back then." Passing me a humored scoff, he pointed out, "Most adults won't tolerate a seven-year-old who runs naked through the hallways and wants to eat his dinner on the floor with the dog. Can you believe that?"

The only response was a slow narrowing of my stare.

"Anyway," he continued, "when I was big enough, I ditched the system. Somehow landed my ass on this very footpath. For a few years, I lived in one of the spare rooms in this house, which was around the same time I got in with the Stray Dogs. Best thing that ever happened to me."

He cleared his throat and tensed slightly.

"This place belonged to our Chief," he revealed. "The same man you gunned to death without flinching."

The memory came to me in a blink.

It took a conscious effort not to shudder as I recalled the firing of a handgun and the unmistakable sound of a dead body hitting the floor. Murderer. I'd killed that Stray Dog like it was nothing and instead of being able to forget, Chains was now blaring his death in my face. Monster. It made my skin crawl just to be standing in front of a dead man's home.

I killed a man and this house is all that's left of him.

If this biker was trying to deepen the blow of the guilt, it was working.

"Why am I here?" I asked in a heartless monotone.

Chains shrugged.

"Cillian Black first bought this house," he explained, "then it went to his brother Christopher. After his funeral a few months ago, Edge and I were supposed to sort out all of this shit together. We thought about selling the place too, but neither one of us had the heart to do it. And since Edge isn't around to call dibs... then I guess it's the club's property now." Smirking at his own creative genius, he said, "Someone's gotta keep the place from going to the dogs, am I right?"

Longest eye-roll of the century.

Waving off the thought, Chains bounced with enthusiasm in his worn boots.

"The plan is pretty simple." Tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he confessed, "As our new club president, I need a grand gesture to prove to all the boys that I'm serious about the role."

"So you've decided to live in a hovel?" I wondered aloud.

"Hov..." He shot me a glare. "Hah, you almost fuckin' got me there. No, dipshit." Pointing out the building in a theatrical sway of his arms, he huffed out, "I'm making this the new clubhouse!"

I stared blankly at the deserted residence. My unimpressed mind could only resort to sarcasm.

"This is your idea of a grand gesture?"

Chains rolled his steely eyes. "I know it doesn't look like much right now, but there's a lot of history here, which is kind of the point. I figured we'd clean the place up—make it a shared project, even. The Stray Dogs are getting too big for the bar to handle and it's about time we found a more permanent place to make headquarters. So I figured, why not fix up this joint, move our base of operations here, and use it to keep the Chief's spirit alive in the process?" A proud look crossed his wicked features as he added, "It's a win-win, motherfucking-win."

I faced the house with a lengthy exhale.

Taking time to process his plans, I scratched at a dry scar on my cheekbone. It carried a dull pain.

There were seven of them now, ripped across my face in uneven slashes, the worst of which had cut my eye. It'd taken multiple stitches and many weeks to heal them shut, leaving me with deep purple lines like a virus in the skin. Some days I would stare and stare at my vicious reflection like a stranger, wishing it would change, wishing I could recognize the monster staring back. Other days I couldn't bring myself to look in a mirror at all.

Even then, it made no difference. Shock and nausea painted the face of every person who dared make the mistake of looking me in the eyes. To them, I was unsightly. Something abnormal, something savage, a freak to fear and be disgusted by.

Unwanted and utterly alone.

My mouth suddenly felt dry. "I'm not the right person to help you with this."

"Au contraire, punkass. I think you're the best person to help me do this."

I shot him a look. "It's obvious what you're really trying to accomplish here. You want me to make amends for his murder by helping to restore this place." My arms crossed. "It won't happen. I have killed people and I will kill people and the only reason I haven't killed you yet is because you made a promise. We're meant to be hunting down Midas's accomplices together. And we do not have time for this."

Dropping the pretense, Chains forced a tight grip on the collar of my shirt.

"What I want," he hissed, "is for you to take some goddamn accountability. I'm not going to let you run away from what you did. You want your revenge? Sure. I'll have all the motherfuckers responsible for poisoning this city served up to you in skulls with no teeth—but don't think you're not going to work for me in the process."

"This is not a negotia—"

"Don't forget, you dim fucking fucker, that we could've killed you." His voice sounded so yellow, imposing like a hazard sign. "We could've shivved you, slit your throat, cut your teeth out for payback—but instead, we chose to take a risk by sparing your life. The least you could do is prove to me that it was worth the fucking migraine. Christ's sake."

"I am not a project to be worked on," I argued, forcing him off me. "And I am not naive. This is a ridiculous idea."

"Look, I'm not saying we have to be best bros. Hell, we don't even have to fucking like each other. God knows one part of me just doesn't trust that you'll ever be good enough to become one of us, but—"

"And the other part?" I snapped too quickly.

Chains exhaled a long breath.

"The other part," he muttered, "is... different. It can tell there's a teensy little shred of guilt in that crooked conscience of yours, and I bet it's driving you up a fucking wall." His fists clenched. "Choose how you're gonna deal with it."

As if it's that easy, I thought with grinding teeth.

With a firm shrug, he then suggested, "Who knows. Maybe if you do a decent enough job with this, you might even be able to start earning respect around here. Your fucking play, errand boy."

My attention draped over the empty house again.

Tightening and un-tightening my fist, I ruminated on the weight of his words. As much as I despised the thought of admitting it, his points weren't entirely off the mark. My chest was consumed with guilt. I could feel the shame of my many transgressions pounding against my ribcage, tugging on my veins, pinching the underside of my tough skin.

I didn't want to be a monster. I didn't want to atone. I didn't want to feel better. I didn't want to be repaired.

I didn't want to feel so helpless whenever my grandmother looked at me with her weathered eyes so full of uncertainty and regret.

"Come on, Scarface," the biker slowly drawled. "Don't you hate how little I think of you? Doesn't it get under your skin? Don't you want to prove me wrong?"

My scowl tightened.

"You can't fix me," I repeated. "I am not an experiment."

He held his hands up in surrender.

"In case you haven't noticed," said Chains, "I'm not exactly holding you fucking hostage here." He cleared his throat. "I've given you two options. You can quit all this bullshit and have me stick a knife in your head, or you can man your ass up and live your life doing the right fuckin' thing with whatever functioning morals you have left—starting with this house."

Huffing resolutely, he then asked, "What'll it be?"

Like an impatient bloodhound, hot fumes steamed from my nostrils. This is ridiculous. Indecision gripped my mind and made me growl lowly. He's a fool, I thought. This will be a disaster no matter what.

But I swallowed my pride and forced a curt nod.

"Excellent," Chains remarked. He clapped his scarred hands. "Then we do it my way. Now let's go see if you can scrub a toilet as well as you can talk your shit."

Pardon?

Watching him bound up the pathway, I uttered incredulously, "You must be joking."

"Oh, don't be so cynical!" Already halfway up the porch, he grinned and asked, "Where's your sense of adventure?"

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the start of a beautiful bromance...
one more bonus next week idk maybe ok byeee