The First Day That Went Wrong
Marcus Thompson stepped off the bus into the copper glare of a Texas morning, clutching a backpack he’d packed three times the night before. New town. New school.
Maybe, finally, a new start. But by the front gate of Oakridge High, a circle closed around him—taunts first, then a shove that sent his books skittering like frightened birds across the sidewalk. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, voice steady but small.
Laughter answered him. Sneakers thudded. A second shove.
A textbook slapped the concrete. The ringleader—Tyler—smirked for his audience. That’s when the sound arrived—low, layered, and impossible to ignore.
Engines Like Thunder
Ten motorcycles rolled around the corner in a staggered line, chrome catching the sun. They stopped in front of the gate as one, the steady idle of their engines filling the space where laughter had been. Boots hit pavement.
Visors lifted. The tall rider at the front removed his helmet. His beard was silver; his eyes were not.
“Morning,” he said, voice even. “What are we looking at?”
“J-just helping him up,” Tyler muttered. “Doesn’t look like help,” the rider replied.
He turned to Marcus. “You good, son?”
Marcus nodded because he didn’t trust his voice yet. That’s when he saw the patches: Iron Brotherhood Veterans MC.
Whatever happened next, he wasn’t alone anymore.
A Walk No One Interrupted
“Inside,” the silver-bearded rider said quietly. “We’ll make sure you get where you’re going.”
A path opened in the crowd.
Hallway whispers became silence. In the principal’s office, the lead rider—Cole Matthews—spoke with the calm precision of someone who had told difficult truths in harder rooms. “We witnessed a targeted incident at your gate,” he said.
“This student was pushed to the ground. Books kicked. Several onlookers.
No adult present.”
Security pulled footage. Facts replaced posturing. By lunch, calls had been made, parents notified, consequences started: suspensions, counseling, written apologies.
The story reached every corner of campus before the bell.
The House With the Small Kitchen
School let out to a sky the color of a new penny. Outside the gate, the motorcycles waited.
Cole held out a spare helmet. “Your mom knows we’re bringing you home.”
The ride unfurled like a promise—air on Marcus’s face, engines steady as a heartbeat. At the duplex, his mom, Denise, ran to the door, relief turning her knees weak.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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