Section 1: The Girl in the Dust
“HE WON’T WAKE UP!”
The little girl’s cry cut across the dusty lot.
Engines rumbled in the distance. Boots scraped gravel. Men in leather turned their heads one by one as the child ran toward them, clutching something far too large for her small arms.
A leather vest. Old. Tattered. Heavy with road dust and memories.
The girl could barely carry it. One side dragged against the ground, leaving a faint line through the dirt behind her. Her cheeks were streaked with dust and tears. Her hair stuck to her forehead. Her tiny shoes were untied. But she did not stop.
Not when the men stared. Not when a woman near the food truck whispered, “Where did she come from?” Not when several bikers shifted uneasily, unsure whether to help or keep their distance.
She ran straight toward the largest man in the lot.
Kudaoks Diorien. That was the name stitched across the back of his cut. People called him Kuda. He was broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, and weathered by years of sun, asphalt, loss, and silence. His face looked like stone until you noticed his eyes. Those eyes had seen too much.
And when the little girl stopped in front of him, gasping for breath, something inside them moved.
She lifted the vest with trembling arms.
“Please, sir,” she whispered. “Please buy it.”
The lot went quiet. A few bikers exchanged glances. Kuda looked down at the vest, then at the girl.
“What is this, kid?” His voice was rough, but not cruel.
The girl swallowed hard. “It’s real,” she said. “My daddy wore it.”
The words sank into the dust. My daddy.
Kuda’s gaze dropped to the vest again. At first, he saw only cracked leather, old stitching, and road grime. Then he saw the patch. A winged eye. A black road curving through flame. And beneath it, faded but still readable: ALL WATCHED EYELIAN.
His expression changed. Only slightly, but every man standing near him noticed. Kuda’s hand moved slowly toward his own vest, toward a hidden inner patch almost no one saw anymore. His fingers stopped before touching it.