The diner buzzed with easy laughter as fifteen veteran bikers crowded around two sticky tables, trading old war stories over cheap coffee.
It was the kind of gathering that looked rough from the outside but felt like family on the inside. Then a little boy—no taller than the tabletop and wearing a faded dinosaur shirt—walked straight toward them. His hands shook as he placed a few crumpled bills next to their mugs. “Can you… stop my stepdad?” he whispered. When he tugged down his collar and revealed the bruises around his small throat, every fork in the diner froze midair. The men who had survived battlefields felt their hearts break at the sight.