Sorted by Barberedstrong

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Tyler Torkleson had always been soft. Not in a bad way, just… cushioned. His life back home was one of quiet comfort—air-conditioned lecture halls, khakis that never saw dirt, cardigans that smelled faintly of cedar from the closet they lived in. He wore tidy glasses with tortoiseshell frames, his hair styled in that floppy, careful way that seemed designed to never offend anyone.

At university he’d been the kind of kid who carried a messenger bag instead of a backpack, always with a laptop, a Moleskine notebook, and a reusable water bottle tucked inside. His sneakers were spotless, his shirts were slim-fit and pressed. He’d never known calluses, never swung anything heavier than a tennis racket.

People liked him—professors, classmates, even his boss at the campus library—but no one feared him. And Tyler couldn’t remember a time he’d ever wanted anyone to. He was the "nice guy," the dependable one, the type who got asked to dog-sit over summer break. He’d never been in a fight, never smoked, never even stayed out all night drinking. His biggest rebellion was a pierced ear that he’d let close up after a week.

When he booked the flight to Manchester, it wasn’t to become someone else. It was curiosity, a gap in his past he wanted filled. A father he’d never known.

But when the train clattered into the city and he stepped out into the rain-slick platforms, his soft-edged life already felt far away.

Because standing there waiting was Callum "Brick" Murphy, his old man. Bomber jacket, braces, jeans cuffed sharp over heavy boots. Head shaved shiny under the station lights, jaw bristling with stubble, shoulders broad like he’d been built from slabs. He looked like every stereotype of a street hardcase Tyler had been warned about.

And next to him—Tyler in his neat button-down, his ironed chinos, his raincoat zipped to the chin—looked like a boy in the wrong film.

"Bloody hell," Brick muttered with a grin as Tyler approached, "they’ve sent me a choirboy."

Tyler flushed, clutching his bag strap tighter, not yet realizing how true those words were.

Tyler had never told anyone he was doing this. Not his adoptive mom, who still called him "my gentle boy." Not his dad, who spent more time polishing his golf clubs than asking questions about Tyler’s past. They thought he was off "backpacking Europe" before senior year—youth hostels, train tickets, museum selfies. He’d even staged a couple of Instagram posts to sell the story.

But he hadn’t wanted museums. He wanted answers. For months he’d spent nights alone at his desk in the dorm, digging through ancestry sites, abandoned records, squinting at grainy scans of birth certificates. His mom had been a dead end—gone too soon, with barely a digital footprint. But eventually, he’d found a trail that led here. To Callum Murphy of Manchester.

Now here he was, walking next to a man who seemed to take up the whole street.

Brick’s bomber jacket squeaked when he swung his arms. His boots hit the pavement in heavy steps, a rhythm Tyler couldn’t match no matter how quick he walked. Tyler kept glancing down at himself—his neat raincoat, pressed chinos, the messenger bag strapped tight across his chest—and he couldn’t help but feel like every passerby could see the gulf between them.

Brick smirked, giving him a sideways glance. "You look like you’re off to a lecture, lad. But don’t worry—we’ll get you sorted."

Tyler tried to smile, but his stomach tightened. He had no idea what "sorted" meant in this context, only that he suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

They reached the pub—a squat brick building with frosted windows and a door that rattled every time someone went in or out. The noise inside was thick: voices raised in laughter, pints clinking, music thumping low under it all. Cigarette smoke curled out of the doorway each time it opened.

Brick pushed the door wide with his shoulder and stepped in, not even looking back to see if Tyler followed. Tyler hesitated, pulse quickening, then forced himself after him.

The heat hit first. Then the stares.

A dozen heads turned as Brick strode in, each one belonging to a man who looked cut from the same cloth: shaved heads shining under the yellow lights, bomber jackets and braces, boots that thudded against the wooden floor. Tattoos crept up necks, scrawled across knuckles, flashing when pints were lifted. These men were solid, loud, blue-collar to the bone.

And behind Brick, Tyler might as well have had a neon sign over his head: outsider.

"Oi, lads!" Brick bellowed, voice booming over the din. "This here’s me boy. Straight from the States."

A roar of laughter and jeers went up, not cruel but rough-edged, testing him. Someone shouted, "Bloody hell, Brick, you sure he’s yours? Looks like he’s never seen a day’s graft in his life!" Another: "Yank’s wearin’ his Sunday best!"

Tyler froze in the doorway, clutching his messenger bag strap like a lifeline. His cheeks burned, but Brick just grinned, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Gentlemen," Brick said, steering Tyler toward the bar, "meet the Yank."

The gang took him in, eyes glittering with curiosity, mischief, a little suspicion. Tyler’s throat went dry, but beneath it all there was something else—something that felt almost like welcome.

The first pint appeared in front of Tyler before he even sat down. A thick glass, amber liquid crowned with a foamy head, shoved into his hand by a tattooed arm.

"Get it down ya, Yank!" someone shouted, and the whole pub seemed to echo it back, laughing, pounding the tables.

Tyler stammered, "Oh, I—I don’t really—"

But Brick was already lifting his own pint, raising an eyebrow at him. "You’re with me, lad. That means you drink."

Tyler swallowed, the lump in his throat bigger than the glass. He lifted it with both hands, awkward as a choirboy with a chalice, and took a long pull. It was bitter, heavy, nothing like the sweet ciders he’d stolen sips of at college parties. He gagged but forced it down.

The lads roared. "He’s drinkin’ like a bird!" "Careful, don’t spill on your posh little coat!"

Another pint landed in front of him before he’d finished the first. Then another. Brick didn’t stop it—didn’t encourage it either, just kept that crooked half-smile, watching his boy squirm.

By the third pint, Tyler’s cheeks were flushed, his words loose. "S’a bit strong, innit?" he slurred, and the room erupted with laughter again. Someone clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him off the stool.

"Brick, you sure he’s yours?" a thickset skinhead jeered, leaning in close to Tyler’s face. "Lad looks like he’s never swung a hammer."

Brick’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, Tyler caught a flash of danger behind his smirk. He pulled Tyler a little closer, resting a hand heavy on his shoulder. "He’s mine. Blood don’t lie. Don’t matter what he looks like."

That shut the man up. The others laughed, but it was different now—less cruel, more ribbing, like a test passed.

Tyler didn’t leave Brick’s side after that. He clung there, drunk and dizzy, watching the room through blurred lenses. The laughter, the shoves, the rowdy chants—they scared him, but Brick was solid beside him, a brute he wasn’t sure he could trust… and yet the only one he could.

As the night wore on, he found himself laughing too. He sang a chorus he didn’t know the words to, his arm slung awkwardly around Brick’s broad shoulders, pint sloshing over his sleeve. The lads howled and cheered, chanting, "One of us! One of us!" until Tyler’s head spun.

When the bar finally thinned and Tyler tried to mumble something about his hotel, Brick snorted. "Hotel? Don’t be daft. You’re with me."

Tyler was too drunk to argue.

Tyler woke to the sound of pans clattering and the smell of grease so thick it clung to the walls. His head throbbed like someone had stuffed it with bricks and rolled it down a hill.

He groaned, clutching his temples, only to realize he was sprawled on a battered sofa in a flat that looked like it had survived a small war—peeling wallpaper, ashtrays spilling over, boots lined against the radiator.

"Rise and shine, Yank." Brick’s voice carried from the kitchen. A minute later he appeared, holding a plate piled high with bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, toast—the whole fry-up. He set it down on the coffee table in front of Tyler with a grin.

Tyler sat up, winced, and immediately regretted the movement. "Oh God…"

"Best cure’s grease," Brick said, dropping into a chair with his own plate. "Get it down ya."

Tyler tried, stabbing half-heartedly at a sausage, but every bite seemed to bounce around his skull. He pushed the plate away after a few mouthfuls.

Brick smirked. "Lightweight." But his tone was softer than it had been last night.

For a while they ate in silence—or rather, Brick ate, Tyler stared at his plate and tried not to be sick. Eventually Brick lit a cigarette and leaned back. "So. You wanna know what you’ve walked into, eh?"

Tyler glanced up, eyes still bleary but focused. "I… yeah. I mean, you—this whole thing—it’s not what I expected."

Brick chuckled, smoke curling from his mouth. "What’d you expect? Some nine-to-five bloke in a tie? Nah. Weren’t never me. Lost your mum too young, lad. After that, I went adrift. No plan, no… nothin’. These lads—you saw ’em last night. They took me in. Gave me a family when I didn’t have one. That’s what all this is. The boots, the braces, the bald heads. It’s unity. Ain’t about lookin’ hard. It’s about knowin’ who’s got your back."

Tyler swallowed, something shifting in him. He’d grown up surrounded by books, polite conversations, suburban safety nets. He’d never thought about belonging like that—about having to find your own family.

"Do you… uh…" Tyler hesitated, then blurted, "Do you… can you not grow hair?"

Brick barked a laugh that shook his shoulders. "Course I can, you daft sod. We all can. This ain’t bald ’cause I have to be—it’s bald ’cause I choose it. It’s a mark. You see one of us, you know. Solidarity."

Tyler blinked, cheeks warming. "Oh. I just thought—"

"You thought wrong." Brick grinned, clapping him on the knee. "But listen—if you fancy tryin’ it yourself, I’ll get you sorted sometime. No pressure."

Tyler’s stomach flipped. The idea jolted him, equal parts terrifying and… strangely tempting. He said nothing, just looked down at his hands.

Brick laughed again, standing and stubbing his cigarette out. "But before any of that—we’re goin’ out. Show you the town proper. And you ain’t walkin’ round lookin’ like a bloody choirboy. You’ll stick out like dog’s bollocks."

Tyler frowned, glancing down at his chinos and raincoat. "What’s wrong with this?"

"What’s wrong?" Brick gestured at him from head to toe. "Everything. Go on—rummage through that pile." He nodded at a heap of clothes dumped on a chair: jeans, shirts, old bombers, a pair of braces dangling loose. "Pick somethin’. Don’t matter what. Just so you don’t look like you’re off to a book signing."

Tyler stared at the pile, heart racing. He’d never borrowed clothes from his father before—hell, he’d never even seen him until yesterday. Now here he was, hungover in a stranger’s flat, about to dress himself from that stranger’s laundry.

And yet… it felt like the start of something.

Tyler dug through the pile with clumsy hands—an old checked shirt with the elbows worn thin, a pair of jeans stiff from years of wear, a jacket that smelled faintly of smoke and sweat. He held them up uncertainly.

Brick leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. "Christ almighty, you look like you’re pickin’ out a Halloween costume. Gimme that."

Before Tyler could protest, Brick was in front of him, snatching the clothes from his hands. "Right. Jeans first. None of that skinny s**te you had on yesterday. Get in."

Tyler obeyed, stepping into the heavy denim. They were loose at the thighs but cinched sharp at the ankle when Brick cuffed them for him. Next came the braces, snapping against his shoulders with a sting. The shirt smelled lived-in, almost intimate, and Brick buttoned it up halfway before rolling the sleeves rough up Tyler’s forearms.

That’s when the contrast struck him. His own arms were pale, unmarked, soft-skinned like he’d never worked a day outside a library. Across from him, Brick’s arms were covered in ink—black swallows, daggers, words curling up the tendons of his forearms, designs crawling onto the backs of his hands. When Brick turned to grab something off the chair, Tyler caught the full lattice of tattoos wrapping his neck, reaching up the nape like ivy climbing a wall.

Tyler looked down at himself again, now dressed in the uniform of this world—boots, jeans, braces—but underneath, his skin was blank, untouched. A virgin canvas standing beside a man who wore his history on him like armor.

For the first time, though, he didn’t just see difference. With the clothes on, there was a flicker of resemblance. Same jawline. Same build, once you looked past the softness. Same feet, even, the boots fitting perfectly—size 11, like Brick’s. It was the hair and the ink that set them apart, the only things that marked him still as the outsider.

Brick crouched, shoved the boots toward him, and watched him lace them up. "Not bad, Yank. You’ll do."

⸻

That night at the pub, the change didn’t go unnoticed. The lads erupted the moment Tyler stepped through the door.

"Bloody hell, look at him!"
"Brick’s kitted him out proper!"
"Oi, Yank, those your dad’s hand-me-downs?"

Tyler flushed but grinned despite himself. The jeers were rough, but they weren’t cruel—they were the way the lads spoke to each other, a strange language of mockery that translated into belonging.

One of them tugged at his sleeve, another stomped his boot in greeting, and for the first time, Tyler didn’t feel like a stranger. He drifted closer to Brick, who was already halfway through his first pint, and the two shared a look. Not a smile, not quite, but something heavier. Connection.

The only crack in the welcome came with the jokes about his hair.

"You forgot the razor, Brick!"
"Yank looks half done—top’s still floppin’ about!"
"Oi, better shave him down before he gets mistaken for a bloody student again."

Tyler laughed weakly with them, but each barb landed. His hand drifted to his hair more than once, self-conscious. It was all in good fun—but it stuck.

That night, when the chants of "One of us!" started again and the beer was flowing, Tyler found himself wondering what it would feel like to finish the picture. To match Brick fully, not just halfway.

And the thought terrified him as much as it thrilled.

The night was already loud when the rival crew came in—another pack of shaved heads and bomber jackets, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the room. Tyler felt the tension crackle before a word was said.

Brick stiffened beside him. "Stay close," he muttered, eyes locked across the pub.

But it was already happening. One of the newcomers shouldered past Brick and, catching sight of Tyler in his borrowed gear, sneered. "What’s this then? Brick’s got a bloody Yank mascot now?"

The lads erupted in shouts. Tyler felt his pulse spike. He’d been teased, sure, but this was different—something sharp and dangerous.

Before he could step back, the rival skinhead sucker-punched him hard across the mouth. White pain exploded in his skull; he stumbled, tasting blood, something jagged in his teeth. The pub went mad—tables scraping, fists flying, pint glasses shattering.

Tyler wiped his mouth, stared at the blood on his hand, and something in him snapped. He wasn’t going to fold. Not in front of Brick. Not now.

He lunged forward, catching the man square with his shoulder, and drove a fist into his jaw. Another hit, wild and unpracticed, but heavy. The rival swung back, cracking him near the eye—Tyler saw stars—but he kept going. The third punch landed flush. The man went down like a sack of bricks, out cold on the sticky floor.

For a second there was only the thrum of his heartbeat and the ringing in his ears. Then the lads were on him—hands on his back, hauling him upright, shouting over one another.

"Did you see that?!"
"Yank dropped him!"
"One of us! One of us!"

Brick grabbed him by the shoulders, grinning so wide Tyler could see the gap in his chipped incisor. "That’s my boy."

Tyler swayed, adrenaline fading into nausea. He spat blood into a napkin and caught sight of his reflection in the darkened window—his eye swelling purple, his front tooth jagged and broken. Panic cut through the haze. "My tooth," he muttered, pressing his tongue to it. "Jesus, my tooth. What am I gonna do about my—"

Brick’s grin didn’t falter. "Don’t worry. We’ll get it sorted in the mornin’. Trust me."

⸻

Morning came with a dull ache in his jaw and a face he barely recognized. Black eye. Split lip. Chipped tooth. Brick made him coffee and no jokes this time, just a nod toward the door.

They walked to a back street and down a narrow flight of stairs into a low-lit shop that smelled of disinfectant and cigarette smoke. The walls were covered in flash sheets and photos of inked-up punters. A huge man with sleeves of tattoos down both arms and a silver ring through his nose stood waiting, grinning.

"This is Chugger," Brick said. "He’ll sort you out."

Tyler hesitated, glancing at the circle of familiar faces—most of the lads from the night before, leaning against the walls, watching. "He’s… he’s a dentist?"

The room erupted in laughter. "He’s everything," someone said. "Chugger knows his business."

Tyler sat in the cracked leather chair, heart thudding. He opened his mouth. Chugger worked quick, rough but sure-handed. "You’ll be sound, lad. Better than before."

Tyler expected a repair, maybe a cap that looked like the old tooth. But when Chugger tipped the chair upright and handed him the mirror, his breath caught.

The tooth was gold. Not a flash of gold—all gold, shining in the dim light.

The lads cheered. "Proper hooligan now!"
"Look at that grin!"
"One of us, Yank!"

Tyler stared at himself, unsteady. His swollen eye, his busted lip, and now that gold tooth flashing every time he opened his mouth. He didn’t look like the boy who’d stepped off the plane. He didn’t even look like the boy who’d walked into the pub last night.

Something huge cracked open inside him. Fear, yes, but something else too—something electric, a rush that made his hands tremble. He turned to Brick.

"Sort me a proper cut," he heard himself say. "I want… I want the cut."

The room went silent for a beat. All eyes swung to Brick.

Brick just stood there, staring at him, something shifting behind his hard expression. Then slowly, he smiled—wide, toothy, proud. "That’s my boy," he said, voice low and thick. "Didn’t think I’d hear you ask it so soon, but I knew it’d come. Knew you had it in you."

He clapped Tyler on the shoulder, heavy but warm. "You’re ready. I’ll make the call. Lads—" he turned to the others, voice booming with pride, "—we’re gettin’ my son shaved in proper."

The place erupted. Cheers, chants, fists thudding against the walls. Tyler felt his chest tighten, his skin buzzing with heat. Brick’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder, steadying him, holding him in place like he was already part of the fabric.

For the first time, Tyler didn’t just feel like a guest. He felt claimed.

Tyler’s stomach flipped. The roar of the lads around him echoed in his ears, but all he could focus on was Brick’s hand clamped on his shoulder, heavy, solid, grounding. That’s my boy.

The words repeated in his head, louder than the chants, louder than his own doubts. No one had ever said it like that before. Not with that kind of pride. Not with that kind of ownership. It hit him square in the chest—what he’d been chasing without even knowing it.

But then the other truth hit. A proper cut. He knew what that meant. Bald. Shaved clean. His bookish mop, the one thing that still tethered him to who he was back home, gone. He saw his reflection again—glasses crooked, bruise blooming across his cheek, the glint of gold where his front tooth used to be. He already looked halfway like them. Was he really going to let them take him the rest of the way?

His heart hammered, panic climbing his throat. This is insane. I can’t… I shouldn’t…

But then Brick gave his shoulder a little squeeze, just enough to steady him, just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. Tyler turned, caught that crooked grin—the same one he’d been terrified of when he first saw him at the airport. Only now it meant something else. Now it meant: I see you. You’re mine.

The chants grew louder—"SORT HIM! SORT HIM!"—boots stomping against the floor, fists pounding the bar. Tyler barely had time to open his mouth, to second-guess, to stall.

"Come on, Yank!" someone bellowed. "Pub’s shut—Chugger’s got the keys!"

And before he knew it, they were moving. Half the group behind him, half in front, corralling him through the side door and into the night. Tyler stumbled along, adrenaline fizzing in his veins, Brick walking steady beside him, never letting the gap widen.

Tyler glanced at him in the yellow streetlight, wanting to protest, to slow things down. But Brick just smirked. "Don’t look so scared, lad. You wanted in, and this is it. You’ll thank me after."

The knot in Tyler’s stomach twisted tighter. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe what was about to happen.

But as they rounded the corner toward the shuttered shop, the chants still echoing, he felt something stranger than fear creeping in—an ache that wasn’t dread at all.

Belonging.

The pub was closed, the shutters pulled down, chairs stacked on tables. Only a few low lamps glowed behind the bar. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung in the air. The lads were ringed around the center of the room like a tribunal, pints in hand, boots tapping the scuffed floorboards in rhythm.

Tyler sat in an old wooden chair they’d dragged out from the corner, hands on his knees, heart battering his ribcage. His black eye had bloomed fully now, his gold tooth flashing when he licked his dry lips. He felt half-drunk still, half-afraid, half-hungry for whatever was about to happen.

Brick stepped out from behind the bar, a white towel draped over one arm and a straight razor glinting in the other. He didn’t hand it off to Chugger. He didn’t let anyone else near Tyler. This was his.

He stopped right in front of Tyler, leaned down until they were almost nose-to-nose, and put a hand on the back of his neck. The pub went quiet.

"I’m proud of you, lad," Brick said softly, eyes locked on his. His voice wasn’t a bark this time; it was low and steady, like a promise. "You’ve got heart. Didn’t think you’d take it this far. But you did. You’re mine now, proper."

Warmth flushed through Tyler’s chest at the words. His throat tightened. For a moment, the noise of the pub and the sting of the fight and the smell of beer all melted away. No one had ever said that to him like that.

Brick straightened, flicked open the blade, and draped the towel around Tyler’s shoulders. "Right then. Head down."

Tyler lowered his head, staring at the wood floor between his boots. Brick dipped his fingers into a mug of hot water and slicked Tyler’s hair just enough to part it for the blade. It wasn’t a drenching—just enough to press the strands flat, to make them heavy and ready.

Then, with a slow breath, Brick placed the blade at Tyler’s crown. "No turnin’ back," he said quietly.

Scrape. The sound was soft but final, a slow peel from crown to hairline. A heavy, wet clump of hair slid down, landing in Tyler’s lap with a dull thud. His stomach lurched.

Scrape. Another stroke, and more of his old self tumbled down, sticking to the towel, catching on his knees. The lads started up a low chant—"SORT HIM. SORT HIM."—boots thumping the floor like a drum.

Brick worked methodically, crown to front, then down the sides. Each pass sent more dark clumps sliding down, streaking the towel, speckling Tyler’s boots. Tyler gripped the arms of the chair, pulse racing. Panic and thrill clawed at him at once. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He couldn’t believe how much he wanted it.

Brick paused halfway through, thumb brushing a line across the newly bared scalp. "Good lad," he murmured, low enough for only Tyler to hear. "Nearly there."

Tyler swallowed hard. His heart was hammering, but the warmth in his chest stayed, steady as Brick’s hand. He lowered his head again, ready for the next stroke.

There really was no turning back now.

The last scrape of the blade sent a few more stubborn clumps of hair tumbling into Tyler’s lap. He lowered his head, letting Brick smooth the towel over his freshly bared scalp. The sensation was electric—raw, alien, thrilling. He raised his eyes to the mirror behind the bar.

He barely recognized himself. Bald, bruised, gold tooth flashing, black eye swelling, soaked in sweat and adrenaline… and yet, somehow, perfectly his own. A spitting image of the man beside him, his father, Brick, down to the sharp line of the jaw and the broad, uncompromising shoulders.

The lads erupted. Cheers, claps on the back, fists pounding the bar, boots stomping. Someone tipped over a pint just to hear the crash. "One of us! One of us!"
"Yankskin!"
"Bloody hell, Brick, he’s proper now!"

Tyler’s chest heaved. The panic and thrill that had gripped him earlier hadn’t left entirely, but it had morphed into something sharper, hotter—pure belonging. They were all around him, lifting pints, laughing, hollering, teasing him about his bruises, his black eye, the gold tooth. And for the first time in his life, Tyler didn’t care. He didn’t care about being soft, about standing out, about what he’d left behind.

Brick clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Tyler felt the same grounding presence that had gotten him this far. He looked up at him through swollen lids. "You… you’re really proud of me, aren’t you?"

Brick only grinned, half-smile crooked like always. "Course I am, lad. Never doubted you’d get here."

The revelry swirled around him. Pint glasses clinked, laughter rolled over the tables, boots stamped on the wooden floorboards. Tyler ran a hand over his bald scalp, feeling the smoothness, the sharp new identity beneath his fingers.

And then it hit him. The thought he hadn’t dared to think until now: I don’t want to leave. Not ever.

He leaned close to Brick amid the chaos, the noise, the smoke, and said it, almost trembling:

"I… I want to stay."

Brick’s grin widened. The lads around them hooted and slapped him on the back, but Brick just gave Tyler’s shoulder a squeeze, hard and steady. "Right then, Yankskin. Welcome home, lad. Welcome home."

Tyler let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, eyes scanning the room. This was it. This was him. Bald, bruised, gold-toothed, inked in spirit if not yet in body. One of them. One of Brick’s. One of the lads.

The pub roared, and for the first time, Tyler felt a fire in his chest that would never be doused. He was sorted.



EPILOGUE:

Five years had carved Tyler into someone unrecognizable to the boy who had first stepped off the plane in Manchester. Yankskin, his name etched in thick black letters across his knuckles, flexed his hands as he tightened a welding mask. The veins stood out along his forearms, arms thick with muscle and ink. Black swallows traced the sides of his neck, daggers and skulls climbed his chest and shoulders, and his bald head shone under the workshop lights, smooth and unyielding.

He was thick now, truly blue-collar—hands calloused from years at the torch, arms broad from lifting steel and bending iron. The soft, baggy, bookish boy who had nervously dialed a phone number to find a man he barely knew was gone. Every inch of his body screamed the life he had chosen.

Brick was beside him, as steady as ever, sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos that mirrored his own in some ways, a map of life and loyalty inked across his flesh. They worked side by side, sparks flying, steel glowing, the clang of the workshop their constant rhythm. Yankskin felt no ache for the life he had left in America—almost all contact was cut off. His adoptive parents had called, begged him to come back, flown out to see him a month after he told them he wasn’t returning, but the damage was done. Brick’s grip on him had never loosened, and he had felt a belonging with the man and the lads that no suburban house, no polite lectures, no bookish safety net could offer.

The tattoos that had once terrified him now felt like armor and identity. Aggressive, sprawling, unapologetic—the black lines had spread over his chest, back, arms, and hands, each one a mark of fights won, nights survived, bonds forged. He looked at his reflection in a steel panel, bald and solid, and felt the steady burn of pride.

Brick clapped him on the shoulder, laughing as he always did. "Not bad, lad. Not bad at all. You’ve earned every stripe, every line. You’re solid now. One of us, proper."

Yankskin flexed his fingers, watching the letters gleam under the fluorescent light. He smiled faintly, the gold tooth catching the gleam. The boy he had been—soft, unsure, fumbling—was truly gone. In his place stood a man welded to his father’s world, marked by ink, fire, and belonging.

The American life that had once defined him was a distant echo, almost unreal. Here, with Brick, with the lads, with the roar of the forge and the smell of molten steel, he was home.

And he had no intention of ever leaving.

---