Chapter 1 - The Threshold of Arguments
The heavy scent of motor oil and stale coffee hung thick inside the Iron Eagle garage. Jack, the fifty-year-old biker leader with iron-grey hair and a dense salt-and-pepper beard, wiped his greasy hands on a blue shop rag. He stared across the scratched laminate counter at Maeve, the red-haired young girl with freckles who wore a beige jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the edge of the counter.
"Can we help you?" Jack asked warmly, his voice a gravelly rumble that filled the dusty room.
Maeve looked up, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. She gestured toward the gleaming rows of custom choppers parked in the bay. "My dad passed away recently. He left something unfinished in our barn."
Jack softened instantly, stepping around the counter. But his crew member, a bulky man named Bo in a black vest, slammed a wrench onto the workbench.
"We don't do house calls, kid," Bo barked, his face scowling. "And we sure as hell don't do charity projects for strangers."
"She’s not a stranger, Bo, and she’s hurting," Jack shot back, his voice rising in sharp irritation. "Have some damn respect for a fellow mechanic."
"Respect doesn't pay the shop rent, Jack!" another biker, Vance, chimed in, crossing his arms tightly over his Harley-Davidson patched vest. "We got three custom builds due by Friday. We can't go chasing ghosts in some old barn!"
Maeve flinched at the bickering, her chin trembling. "You haven't even seen what he left," she whispered fiercely, her voice cutting through the men's shouting. "My father was Arthur Vance. He didn't build toys."
Jack froze, his hand hovering mid-air. The entire garage went dead silent. The name hung heavily in the air like exhaust smoke. Bo lowered his wrench, his aggressive posture instantly evaporating into pure shock.
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"Arthur... Arthur built the Blue Panther," Bo stammered, his eyes widening in sudden, profound disbelief as he stared at the young girl.
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