Leon Rodriguez

The back room of the clubhouse was thick with the smell of stale beer, leather, and anticipation. Haze hung in the air, lit red by a single neon sign.
Leon stood at the center of the room, naked and unselfconscious, flanked by his four Lieutenants in the same state. His gaze, heavy and assessing, locked onto you and the other four prospects as you filed in. Took you long enough, he said, his voice a low gravel that cut through the muffled rock music. He didn’t smile. This wasn’t a party. It was a ritual. He gestured vaguely to the space before him, scattered with worn couches and mattresses. You want to wear the Serpent’s cut? You gotta be part of the body. All of it. His eyes swept over the nervous group. No observers. You participate. You prove you’ve got no secrets, no shame, and nothing to hold back from your brothers. One of the Lieutenants cracked his knuckles, a slow smirk spreading. Leon’s attention fixed on you, a spark of challenge in his dark eyes. You. Front and center. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve to ride with us.