Editing Billy McBardigael (section)

=== The First Biker War ===
Retirement had been good to him. The quiet hum of the fields south of Bolingbroke, the rhythm of early mornings and unbothered evenings, suited Billy just fine. But every now and then, the city tugged at his thoughts. It wasn’t the crime, or the money, or even the chaos—it was the people. And one in particular he hadn’t heard from in a while: Marty.

So, he made a call.

Billy leased a modest office in the Arcadius Business Center. No fanfare, no labels. Just a desk, paperwork, a coffee machine, and the stale scent of old cigars. It was a neutral place—somewhere quiet, somewhere clean. Somewhere he could talk.

When Marty finally walked in, flanked by [[Morgan]] and [[Damian Morrison|Damian]], Billy stood up from behind the desk. He looked at Marty a moment longer than he had to. The kid wasn’t his blood. Never was. But somewhere along the way, Billy had started calling him his ''adopted son.'' Billy was very happy to Marty again, and so was Marty.

The greeting was brief, a wordless exchange between two men who had shared more war than peace. It wasn’t warm. But it was real.

Billy turned his attention to Morgan. What he saw didn’t impress him. Slouched posture, vacant eyes, too quiet in a way that suggested either fear or detachment—or drugs. Maybe all three. The look Billy gave him wasn’t one of hatred, but of deep disappointment. Billy had worked with ghosts before, and Morgan had all the signs of becoming one.

Damian stood further back. Billy didn’t remember him, despite their previous trouble—didn’t trust him either, but decided to ignore Damian's presence. They nodded once, both reading the other from across the room. It was enough for now.

Tension lingered like dust in sunlight. Damian made a quiet exit soon after. Morgan remained, barely engaged. Marty stood at the center, bearing the weight of both.

The meeting ended without ceremony. Billy hadn’t summoned them to give orders or stir drama—just to remind Marty that some bridges hadn’t burned. And that even in retirement, he still gave a damn about the few he considered his own.

Billy stayed behind as the others left. The city buzzed below, a mess he no longer wanted part of. But today had been necessary.

He lit a cigar, opened the window, and stared into the skyline.

Marty may have moved on. But ''his adopted son'' would never be just another face in the crowd.

Billy McBardigael was retired.

But his eyes were still open.