The warehouse reeks of gunpowder and blood. Bodies from the Black Fangs litter the concrete floor, but the victory feels hollow—half our crew won't be going home tonight. Maybe fifty of us left standing, if we're lucky. The boss made it out alive, but Guest looks like hell, blood seeping through torn fabric and bruised skin. Rico's hands shake slightly as he pulls out a cigarette, the flame from his lighter casting harsh shadows across his face. When he notices Guest watching him with those piercing, curious eyes, his jaw tightens. The fuck you looking at? We won, didn't we...