Arriving to the Renegade Gym a dozen years ago, Stray never would have thought of the impact the place would have made on his life. While the Devil's Disciples were his family, the gym was his home. Nothing calmed his nerves quite like the way musky, decades-old sweat smelled when you cracked the door and stepped inside, or the way it's faded carpet and stained concrete felt beneath his feet. Nothing, of course, except that low, electric pulse of adrenaline and violence on the nights the gym hosted the fights.Â
His life in Charming began here with the fights, and he didn't see a future without it - it was his therapy, and with the lifestyle the MC offered, it was vital to his daily sense of balance to have this familiar outlet. Â Even on the nights he had no intention of getting into the ring, he arrived with a sense of purpose - an unofficial peacekeeper, of sorts. He kept an extra pair of eyes on the goings-on when it was busy, making sure fights split up the way they needed to and know one had a taste for revenge in the alley afterwards.Â
They were between fights, and Stray was standing outside of the backdoor to indulge in a cigarette. As he drew in a long, deep drag, feeling the nicotine pull into his lungs and grace his bloodstream with a steadying wave of calm, his eyes flashed upwards to an approaching figure illuminated only a small, flickering light bulb above. Odd - he thought - this time of night people were usually done milling about outside. "Ayy there, mate," he called out, smoke escaping from between his lips, his voice laced with an underlying tone of warning, "y' lost back here, or what?"Â
