Page 110 of Grim

Stone stepped forward, clearing his throat. His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

“Alexander Parker,” he began, “Switchblade… wasn’t your typical prospect.”

The yard went still.

“He was older than most who come to us. A veteran. A man who’d already lived through a war once and still chose to stand between danger and the people he cared about.”

Havoc bowed his head. Rook crossed his arms, jaw tight. Ledger stood rigid, eyes fixed on the cut.

Stone continued, voice thickening. “He didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. When Switchblade spoke, you listened. When he nodded, you knew he meant it. When he took a job, you didn’t worry about it again.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the club.

“He was weeks away from patching in,” Stone added quietly. “He earned that patch ten times over.”

Sophia’s breath hitched.

“He died protecting our family,” Stone said. “Protecting Sophia. Protecting all of us.”

Grim’s hand found hers — slow, careful — and she didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled around his, trembling.

Havoc stepped forward first. “He didn’t say much,” he muttered. “But when he did, it was usually something smart. Or something that shut me up. Which… yeah. Impressive.”

A few soft chuckles broke the tension.

Havoc stepped back from the table, but he didn’t rejoin the others. He stayed there a moment longer, staring at Switchblade’s cut like he was trying to memorize it. His jaw flexed once, hard. Not anger — something heavier. Something Havoc never let anyone see.

Grim caught the way Havoc’s fingers curled at his sides, like he needed to hit something just to breathe. But he didn’t. He just stood there, shoulders tight, eyes burning with a grief he didn’t have words for.

Havoc finally exhaled — one sharp breath, the kind a man takes when he’s holding too much inside — and stepped back into the line of brothers, expression locked down again.

Rook nodded. “He watched everything. Saw things the rest of us missed. Saved my ass more than once.”

Fish spoke quietly. “He was solid. The kind of man you trusted without thinking about it.”

Ledger’s voice was low, but it carried. “He died brave. The way he lived.”

Fish didn’t step forward like the others. He stayed a few paces back, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on Switchblade’s cut. Not staring. Not frozen. Just… holding the moment in that quiet way of his.

When the others finished speaking, Fish lifted his chin once — a small, precise nod. Respect. Grief. A promise. It was the kind of gesture Grim had seen him give over fallen brothers overseas. Simple. Final. Heavy.

Then Fish shifted his stance, scanning the perimeter again, like guarding the memorial was the only thing keeping him steady.

Sophia stepped forward slowly and placed a small white flower beside the candle. Her hand shook.

“He helped me,” she whispered. “I won’t forget him.”

Grim stepped up beside her, placing his hand over hers on the table.

“We won’t either,” he said.

Stone added quietly, “He died a Saint. And the man who killed him paid for it.”

Stone lifted Switchblade’s cut with both hands, reverent. “We honor him today. We thank him. And we carry him with us.”

The club bowed their heads.

The candle flickered. The yard fell silent. And Switchblade’s memory settled over them like a weight, heavy, sacred, unbreakable.