Chapter 4 : Settling In
The apartment smelled like dust and old cigarettes.
One bedroom above Hutchins Hardware, second floor, no elevator. The landlord was a heavyset man named Gary who asked for first and last month's rent in cash and didn't bother with a lease.
"Keep it quiet, pay on time, we won't have problems." He dropped the key in my palm. "Trash goes out Wednesdays."
The door stuck when I tried to close it. I shouldered it into the frame, heard the latch catch. Gary was already halfway down the stairs.
I stood in the middle of my new home.
Bare walls, water-stained ceiling, a window overlooking Main Street that rattled when trucks passed. The kitchen was a hot plate and a mini-fridge older than I was. The bathroom had a toilet that ran and a shower with questionable water pressure.
Home sweet home.
I dropped my saddlebag on the bare mattress and took inventory. The Oakland apartment keys were useless now—too far to commute, and Cole Ashford needed to be visible in Charming. The cash situation was getting critical. After rent and the security deposit, I had $73 left.
[SIDE QUEST COMPLETE: ESTABLISH LOCAL RESIDENCE] [+25 XP | LOCAL REPUTATION +5]
The notification flickered and faded. Small progress.
I walked to the window. Main Street stretched below—hardware store, diner, post office, the kind of businesses that survived on regulars and stubbornness. A pickup truck rumbled past, bed loaded with lumber. Two women chatted outside the grocery store, bags hanging from their arms.
Small town America. Charming lived up to its name.
But I knew what lurked beneath the surface. The guns in basement storage. The bodies buried in the hills. The complicated web of loyalty and violence that kept this place running.
My stomach growled. Right. Food was a thing humans needed.
---
[Charming Main Street — 4:30 PM]
The grocery store was small but well-stocked. I grabbed the essentials—bread, peanut butter, instant coffee, a six-pack of cheap beer. The cashier was a teenage girl who barely looked up from her phone.
"Twenty-three fifty."
I counted out bills. The stack in my wallet was getting thin.
Outside, a Charming PD cruiser rolled past. The driver was an older man, white hair, weathered face. Chief Wayne Unser. He slowed as he passed me, eyes tracking, then continued without stopping.
Noted. The new face gets noticed.
I walked the length of Main Street, bags in hand, playing tourist. Learning the layout. The diner had a "Help Wanted" sign that had been there long enough to fade. The hardware store—my landlord's place—did steady business. A barbershop with three old men arguing about baseball. A bar called The Hairy Dog that wasn't the SAMCRO clubhouse but probably served as civilian overflow.
Everyone knew everyone. Conversations stopped when I passed, resumed after I was gone. Strangers got attention in Charming.
I found a bench near the small park and sat. The grocery bags settled at my feet.
A man in a kutte walked past on the opposite sidewalk. I didn't recognize him—not one of the main characters, probably a Nomad or visiting member. But I watched how people reacted. Nods of respect. A woman stepping aside to let him pass. No fear exactly, but acknowledgment. Deference.
SAMCRO wasn't just a motorcycle club here. They were the shadow government.
---
[The Hairy Dog Bar — 8:00 PM]
The beer was cold and the jukebox was loud. I sat at the end of the bar, nursing my second drink, listening.
Two construction workers argued about the Chargers' chances next season. A woman complained to the bartender about her ex-husband. Three guys in work boots discussed a job site accident that sent someone to the hospital.
Normal bar talk. Nothing useful yet.
I waited.
Around nine, the door opened and two men walked in. Young, early twenties, with shaved heads and poor fashion choices. Lightning bolt tattoos on their necks. Nordic runes on their forearms.
Nords. The white supremacist gang that dealt meth and dreamed of controlling Charming.
They ordered shots, loud and obnoxious. The bartender served them fast, didn't make eye contact. The construction workers suddenly found their drinks very interesting.
I sipped my beer and watched.
"—fucking greasers think they own this town," one Nord said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Darby's gonna change that."
"SAMCRO's got cops in their pocket," his buddy replied. "Nothing changes until the spics are gone."
My jaw tightened. Some things never changed, regardless of which world you lived in.
They didn't stay long—three rounds of shots, some racist jokes that got nervous laughs from no one, then they left. The bar's atmosphere relaxed visibly.
"They come in often?" I asked the bartender.
He was mid-fifties, tired eyes, the look of a man who'd seen too much to be surprised by anything. "More than they used to. Darby's boys are getting bolder."
"Darby?"
"Ernest Darby. Runs the Nords." The bartender wiped down the counter. "Used to stay out in the sticks, cook their meth, keep to themselves. Lately they're pushing into town. Testing limits."
"What about the guys with the reaper patches?"
He gave me a look—measuring, cautious. "You're new here."
"Just started at TM. Mechanic."
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition, maybe. The TM connection meant something.
"SAMCRO handles things their way," he said carefully. "They don't like drugs in Charming. The Nords don't like being told what to do. Make of that what you will."
He moved to serve another customer. Conversation over.
I finished my beer, left cash on the bar, and walked out into the cool night air.
Nords getting bolder. SAMCRO keeping the peace through reputation and violence. Town caught in between.
The pieces were aligning. I knew what was coming—the escalating conflict, the deaths, the betrayals. But knowing wasn't the same as changing.
---
[Cole's Apartment — 11:30 PM]
The mattress was harder than it looked.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the building settle around me. Somewhere below, Gary was watching TV—canned laughter leaked through the floor.
My hands rested on my chest. Still young hands. Still a stranger's hands.
What was my name before?
The thought came unbidden. I couldn't remember. The transmigration had taken everything—memories of faces, names, places. I knew I'd had a wife once. A job. A life. But the details were smoke, dissolving when I reached for them.
All I had left was Sons of Anarchy. Seven seasons of plot points and character deaths, burned into my brain with crystal clarity while everything personal had faded.
Maybe that's the point. Maybe you're supposed to forget.
The system pulsed in my peripheral vision. I focused on it.
[HOST STATUS]
Level: 1 EXP: 100/500
Stats: STR: 10 | END: 10 | AGI: 10 PER: 10 | CHA: 10 | CUN: 10
Unspent Points: 15 Reputation: 20 Heat: 0
Fifteen points sitting there, waiting to be assigned. I could boost my strength, make myself a better fighter. Increase charisma, smooth-talk my way into the club faster. Pump cunning, play the long game.
Not yet. Learn the rules first.
I dismissed the display.
The sheets were cheap cotton, rough against my skin. But they were clean, and the bed was mine, and I was alive when I shouldn't be.
Small victories.
I closed my eyes. Sleep came faster than I expected.
---
[Cole's Apartment — February 18, 2008, 6:45 AM]
Three days passed in routine.
Work at TM. Oil changes, tire rotations, the occasional brake job. Gemma watched without watching. Half-Sack chattered. Lowell worked quietly beside me, competent and twitchy in equal measure.
I learned the rhythms. Coffee at seven, lunch at noon, club members drifting through on errands. Chibs stopped to check his bike's oil. Bobby dropped off a prospect's cut for repair. Tig walked through once, didn't acknowledge anyone, disappeared into the clubhouse.
The patched members existed in a different orbit. Same lot, same air, but separated by invisible walls. Mechanics were civilians. Useful, but not family.
I kept my head down. Did good work. Asked no questions.
On the morning of February 18th, I counted my remaining cash.
Seventy-three dollars. Rent was due in two weeks. The trial period ended in three days.
Need to be indispensable.
I pocketed the thin stack of bills and headed for work.
The walk from my apartment to TM took twelve minutes. I'd timed it. The morning was cool, mist rising from the pavement, sun not yet high enough to burn it off.
Unser's cruiser passed me again. This time he slowed, rolled down his window.
"You're the new mechanic."
"Yes sir."
He studied me—rheumy eyes, calculating. The cancer was probably already growing inside him, though he wouldn't know it yet.
"Charming's a small town," he said. "People notice things."
"I've noticed that."
"Good." He rolled the window back up. "Have a nice day."
The cruiser pulled away.
I walked the rest of the way wondering exactly what had just been communicated.
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!