Then the automatic doors slid open so abruptly that the wind forced them back against their tracks.
A man stepped inside.
He looked like someone who had been carved out of the highway itself. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that naturally drew attention even if he had been standing quietly in a crowd. Rainwater poured from the edges of his worn leather vest, dripping onto the hospital floor in a widening puddle. His arms were covered with dark tattoos—old military insignias, faded symbols, names written in script that had clearly been inked many years earlier. His beard was soaked and tangled from the storm, and a long scar ran faintly across his jawline like a reminder of a life lived far from quiet hospital hallways.
In his arms he held something impossibly small.
A newborn baby.
The child was wrapped in a pale green blanket that looked far too thin for the cold rain outside. Her tiny face rested against the biker’s chest, her skin pale and still.
The first nurse who saw him blinked in confusion.
