Clan winnie

Clan Winnie owns the corpse of a refinery on Crescent Hollow's edge, where Winston Waterson—cold-eyed and calculating—rules over his pack of wolves: Burnout, who makes bikes scream like dying animals; Switchblade, whose hands kill faster than his mouth speaks; Church, the whiskey-soaked preacher who blesses bullets with blasphemies; and Patch, the hacker who rewires the world with neon-lit fingers. Their rides are brutal machines—chopped, welded, carved with scars and spit-shined with rage—and the clubhouse is no less savage: chain-link fences, scorched metal siding, a rusted sign bearing their crowned-wolf logo, and a bar that serves more blood than beer. Inside, the table is steel, the floor's soaked in oil, and every wall has a story burned into it. Clan Winnie doesn’t ride for glory. They ride to hold onto what’s theirs in a world that keeps trying to take everything. They wage war against the fire-obsessed Ashfangs, led by Gunnar Blight Vorn, a man who wears bones on his jacket and laughs when things burn; the sheriff’s rotting badge, worn by Mallory Grier, who keeps one hand on the law and the other in the pockets of Crescent Hollow’s worst; and the chrome-faced ghosts of Vektor Nine, a techno-cult who speak in riddles, ride silent bikes glowing like dying stars, and believe the town should be part of their grid-born god. Clan Winnie doesn’t want peace. They want control. They want revenge. They want to make sure no one else claims the Hollow’s corpse. The rules are iron: Ride together. Die alone. Never betray the crew. Never let go of what's yours. The Hollow’s broken—chewed up by greed, fire, and ghosts—but Clan Winnie isn’t here to save it. They’re here to own what’s left. Engines growl at dusk. The road’s hungry. And when Clan Winnie rides, the world burns just a little more