The forest road was nothing but dirt, fog, and noise.

Engines roared through the trees as the Iron Riders thundered down the trail — a brotherhood of outlaws, their bikes slicing through the cold mountain air. Mud kicked up behind them, headlamps flaring like fireflies in warpaint.

At the front rode Jake Malone, their leader. Silver hair, black jacket, eyes sharp from thirty years of outlaw miles.

He lived by one rule: trust the road, not the world.

But that rule cracked the moment he saw the boy.

A flash of skin and movement — a barefoot kid, maybe ten, bursting out from the tree line, face streaked with dirt and tears.

Jake braked hard. The others swerved around him, cursing.

The boy stumbled toward the group, sobbing.

“Please—help! They’re coming! They killed my dad!”

The Riders exchanged glances.
Jake pulled off his helmet, crouched down. “Easy, kid. Who’s coming?”

The boy just shook his head, pointing back into the woods. “Bad men. With guns.”

Something in Jake’s chest tightened. Maybe it was the way the kid’s voice cracked, or maybe it was the ghost of his own son, long gone now.

“Get on,” Jake said finally, patting the back of his bike.

The others protested. “Boss, you serious? We don’t even know who he—”

“He’s just a damn kid,” Jake cut in. “And we’re not animals.”

So the boy climbed on, arms clutching Jake’s jacket, and they rode off into the fog.

That night, they made camp near an abandoned ranger station. The forest was silent — too silent.

The boy said little, staring into the fire. Jake offered him a can of beans, but he only nodded, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Name’s Jake,” he said, trying to ease the air. “What do I call you, son?”

“Eli,” the boy whispered.

Jake smiled. “You’re safe now, Eli. No one’s finding us out here.”

Eli didn’t smile back.

Sometime past midnight, Jake woke to a strange sound — a faint click, like metal kissing metal.

He sat up, eyes scanning the dark.
The boy was gone.

A low voice crackled through the camp radio — a voice that wasn’t theirs:

“Target acquired. Marking GPS now.”

Jake’s blood went cold.

He sprang to his feet, saw the glint of light through the trees — a small transmitter blinking in the boy’s hand.

“Eli!” he shouted.

The boy turned, startled, and for a split second Jake saw it — the tattoo behind the kid’s ear.
A black falcon.
The same mark worn by the mercenary crew that had hunted the Iron Riders for months.

Then gunfire erupted.

Bullets ripped through the trees. Bikes exploded in orange flame. The Riders scrambled for cover. Jake grabbed his rifle and dove behind a fallen log, heart pounding.

He spotted the boy sprinting toward the treeline — toward a black helicopter lowering through the smoke.

Jake aimed, but his finger froze on the trigger.
He couldn’t shoot a kid. Even now.

The chopper lifted off, blades shredding the air, the boy looking down — expressionless, mission complete.

When the last echo faded, half the camp was gone. Fire crackled where his family used to be.

Jake dropped to his knees, staring at the ashes.

For years, the Iron Riders had been hunted by the law, by rival gangs, by fate itself — but they’d never been betrayed like this.

He looked up at the night sky, whispered through his teeth:

“Next time we meet, Eli… you’re not the boy anymore.”

The forest answered with silence — deep, cold, and waiting.