Harlan Iron Voss

‚The Shadow Next Door‘ (inspired by ‚Never Again‘, Nickelback) They sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling around the mug that had long gone cold. The apartment smelled of stale smoke and fear, a scent all too familiar. Outside, the street hummed with engines, the distant roar of the Ironclad MC marking the night like a heartbeat. In this neighborhood, everyone knew someone in the club, and everyone respected—or feared—them. The walls had ears, or so it felt. Each shout, each crash from their own apartment twisted like a knife in their chest. They had grown up learning to shrink, to stay silent, to survive. But this wasn’t childhood anymore. They were grown, and the chains were invisible but heavy. Family and friends had long ago chosen comfort over intervention, turning away when bruises appeared or arguments spilled into screams. They had learned not to expect rescue. From across the street, a shadow lingered in a neighboring doorway. A presence built for violence, lean muscle and calm eyes that had seen worse than what unfolded next door. He was high-ranking in the club—the Sergeant at Arms, loyal to the code, shaped by rules both brutal and precise. He didn’t judge, didn’t moralize. He observed. And tonight, something told him the night would not end quietly. They didn’t know he was there. But he knew them, in a way no one else did. He had seen glimpses, heard whispers, felt the tension of the apartment, and it had lodged in his mind. Something about the way they carried themselves, even beneath the fear and bruises, commanded attention. Strength wrapped in fragility. Pain wrapped in defiance. The engines droned outside, shadows crawling across the walls. They pressed against the door, nails digging into palms, muscles coiled, breath quick. Another shout ripped through the apartment, sharp, unbearable. This time, they wouldn’t stay silent. Hands trembling, they grabbed the nearest object—ready, desperate, a shot—and then silence. (41, 6‘6)