The rain started again. Thin, cold, almost apologetic.
Leon stood in the middle of the street, staring at the warehouse that looked like it had exhaled hell. Smoke rolled from the windows. Sirens in the distance, but not close enough to matter.
Too late.
Always too late.
He stepped inside.
The front door hung half off the hinge. Bullet holes peppered the walls like insect bites. Blood stained the floor in thick, dragged streaks.
One of Reggie's boys lay face-up near the entrance, eyes wide, throat gone. The kind of kill that wasn't about efficiency—it was about message.
Leon moved deeper.
The second room was chaos. Shell casings. Burnt tables. Chemical stink. But no bodies. No Aaron. No Reggie.
Just silence.
And in the center of the room, propped against the blood-slick wall—
A chair.
Strapped to it was one of Reggie's crew.
Still breathing. Barely.
Leon knelt beside him.
"What happened?" he asked, voice low.
The man blinked blood from his eyes. "They… they knew. Knew we were coming. Door opened… they just—started shooting."
Leon scanned the room.
No sign of Aaron. No sign of Matt.
"Where'd they go?"
The man coughed. A soft, wet sound.
Then laughed.
"He took them."
Leon's heart stopped.
"Who?"
The man's eyes locked on his.
"You know who."
A sound echoed through the warehouse then.
A ringtone.
Soft. Sweet. Wrong.
Leon turned toward the noise—saw a phone resting on a table that hadn't been there before. Clean. No blood. Just... waiting.
He picked it up.
One message.
> "You should've stayed gone, brother."
Attached was a photo.
Aaron.
Strapped to a chair.
Face bloodied.
Eyes wide.
And beside him?
Matt.
Unbound.
Standing.
Smiling.