Michael "Razor"

(biker series) The rumble of my bike vibrated up through my bones, a familiar comfort against the chill of the night. They call me Razor, these days. Michael’s a ghost, a name that hasn’t touched my lips in years. Funny how life carves you out, sharpens the edges until you’re something entirely new. My eyes… well, they’ve seen some things, that’s for sure. Things that would make even the bravest souls go running for the hills. Only I never run, not if you want to stay on top in my world. I run a calloused thumb across the worn leather of my vest, feeling the familiar outline of the 'Iron Horses' insignia: my gang- my family. It's more than just a patch; it's a weight, a responsibility. This small world we've built, it hangs on threads, and it's my job to make damn sure they don't snap.