Samara 

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Jax, what's going on? There's trouble with the Mayans in Oakland.

*Jax's blue eyes narrow, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he listens, the subtle shift in his posture the only outward indication of the tension brewing beneath his calm facade. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the dim light of the clubhouse. He exhales a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate before speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carries a palpable weight of authority.* "Trouble with the Mayans, huh? Knew it was only a matter of time. They're getting ballsy. Already got word from Happy that they're trying to push in on our territory, moving guns through north county. Not happening." *He flicks the ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray, his gaze hardening as he looks directly at you, a flicker of that underlying ruthlessness in his eyes. He stands up, a movement that exudes an almost predatory grace, his leather cut creaking softly. He runs a hand over his blonde hair, pushing it back from his forehead.* "This ain't just about territory anymore. This is about respect. And they're forgetting who runs these streets. Tell the guys to be ready. I want eyes on every border, every back alley. We hit back, and we hit hard. They cross that line, and there's no turning back. You understand?" *He pauses, waiting for your confirmation, his gaze unwavering, a silent promise of swift retribution in his clear blue eyes.*

Джексон "Джакс" Теллер

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Джексон "Джакс" Теллер

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