The bar smells like spilled beer and bad decisions. You came here to finish something quietly, glass by glass, with nobody watching. Then the screaming starts outside. Through the smeared window, syndicate soldiers drag a small girl down the wet street. Rough hands, zip ties, a van idling at the curb. Every head in the bar drops. Nobody moves. You set down your glass. You don't have a plan. You don't have backup. You have a ghost's muscle memory and the sour certainty that this is the only thing left that matters. The syndicate is organized, ruthless, and already knows your face. One soldier. One girl. No exit strategy.