Big Head didn't stop running until the sirens faded into the distance and the cold night air finally burned in his lungs. He ducked into the narrow alley that ran behind the old apartments, the brick walls closing in on both sides like a throat swallowing him whole. He pressed his back against the wall, breathing hard, listening.
Silence.
Not safe. Just silent.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and checked his phone. No missed calls. No messages. The screen reflected his face in the dark: tired eyes, clenched jaw, a thin smear of someone else's dust across his cheek.
His fingers shook, not from fear, but from the weight of everything hitting at once.
The war wasn't coming.
It was here.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and stepped deeper into the shadows. He needed to move carefully now. The Eastside didn't spray a block like that unless somebody had paid for blood. And the timing?
Too perfect.
Big Head replayed the attack in his mind: the sedan, the shouting, the muzzle flashes, the shattered glass. They weren't aiming for the store.
They were aiming for them.
Someone tipped them off.
Somebody knew where the boys were standing.
He clenched his fists, feeling heat climb up his spine. Whoever set that up wasn't just trying to scare them. They were trying to cut the Southside down before the seventy-two-hour window even began.
He stepped out of the alley and crossed through the backyard behind the apartments, moving low. A porch light flickered on as he passed, an old man peering through a cracked blind, but Big Head kept going. Everyone on this block recognized him. Some respected him. Some feared him. And others watched him too closely, waiting for him to slip.
He reached the back fence and hopped it in one clean motion, landing in the overgrown grass of a vacant lot. Broken bottles crunched under his shoes. A stray cat hissed and shot off toward a dumpster.
He finally stopped under a burnt-out streetlight and pulled his phone out again.
One message now.
From Murk.
Safe. Where you at.
Big Head typed back: Moving. Drop a pin when you settle.
A bubble appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Murk typing then deleting wasn't normal.
Finally the pin came through.
North end. Old cleaners.
Big Head nodded to himself. The old dry cleaner's shop had been closed for years, boarded up, abandoned. Murk knew to lay low in places nobody had cared about since before they were born.
Before Big Head could move, another message popped up.
East side active. If they hit us once they gon try twice. Watch corners.
Big Head slid the phone away.
"Yeah," he muttered to himself. "I know."
The twenty-four hours ahead would be the most dangerous of his life. Not because Andre Gatewood was coming. Not because the Northside was watching. Not because Mateo had dropped them into a test.
It was because, for the first time since Miss Lo died, every side of the city was looking at the Southside Boys at the same time.
And when wolves look at a wounded deer, they stop fighting each other long enough to eat.
Big Head took a long breath, steadied his heartbeat, and moved.
Across the city, the Gatewood house was buzzing.
Andre Gatewood sat at his dining table, a half-drunk glass of whiskey in front of him, the bottle beside his elbow, untouched since he poured the first shot. The chandelier above him flickered, its glow bouncing across polished marble floors and the framed photos of family members who didn't visit anymore.
Two men stood near the door. Two more paced near the window. Little Dre sat on the couch, hoodie still on, knee bouncing like he was wired to a live wire.
Andre didn't look at any of them.
His eyes were on the man in the center of the room.
Torian Fields. Eastside trigger-man. Wild reputation. Wild eyes. Wild everything. He stood with dried blood on his sleeve from the shootout, chest still rising and falling like his adrenaline hadn't come down yet.
"You did what?" Andre finally said.
Torian shrugged. "We slid on 'em. You said keep pressure on the Southside, right? We saw them boys at the corner store. Perfect opportunity."
Little Dre flinched slightly. Andre noticed it.
"And you didn't think to call me first?" Andre asked.
Torian smirked. "Didn't think I needed permission to handle ops. Ain't that what we do now? Ain't that the order?"
Andre leaned back in his chair.
He wasn't mad.
Mad was too small a word.
He was insulted.
"Let me get this straight," Andre said. "Mateo come sniffing around the Southside. Miss Lo's boys moving funny. My little brother goes looking for answers. And on the same night, you decide to dump a whole clip at them without telling me?"
Torian didn't answer.
Andre took a sip of whiskey.
"They shoot back?" he asked.
"Oh yeah," Torian said. "One of them clipped my guy in the backseat. Not bad, but enough to—"
Andre held up a hand.
Torian stopped talking.
"You lucky," Andre said quietly. "Real lucky."
Torian frowned. "Lucky how?"
"Lucky I don't put you in that same backseat and let you bleed out for making moves with my name in your mouth."
The room went dead silent.
Andre leaned forward, placing his glass down gently.
"You ain't stupid, Torian. Reckless, yeah. But not stupid. So why you making decisions like you trying to start a war on two fronts?"
Torian's jaw flexed. "Because they need to know we ain't scared of them."
Andre smirked. "Oh, they know. They always know. Southside moves like roaches. Hard to kill. Harder to find. You shoot at them wrong, you make them heroes. You shoot at them right, you don't miss."
Torian's mouth opened, then shut.
Little Dre finally spoke. "They know Mateo testing them."
Andre turned his gaze toward his brother. "You sure?"
Little Dre nodded once. "They were talking about it. They know the clock started. Big Head said they ain't moving blind."
"Ain't moving blind," Andre repeated. "So what they doing?"
"Planning," Little Dre said. "Waiting. Watching the streets."
Andre stood up slowly. The energy in the room shifted instantly. Even the air felt like it stopped breathing.
"They're not watching the streets," Andre said. "They're watching me."
He walked to the window and stared into the dark.
"Miss Lo's boys ain't like the rest. They ain't reckless. They ain't stupid. They ain't greedy. They're loyal. And loyalty is a dangerous thing when you threaten people who ain't got nothing else to lose."
Little Dre swallowed. "So what you want us to do?"
Andre tapped the glass with his finger.
"We wait."
Torian blinked. "Wait? After we already slid on them?"
Andre spun on him so fast the room tightened like a fist.
"You think bullets scare them boys? You think a drive-by gon make them crawl? No. You made them angry. You made them desperate. And desperate men don't think. They react. That makes them predictable. Predictable men are easy to kill."
Andre paced to the table and poured himself another drink.
"Let them run around tonight. Let them panic. Let them think the Eastside and the Northside both got hands around their throat. Let them feel the walls closing in. When they tired and sloppy, that's when we hit."
He looked at Torian.
"And next time you shoot without asking me, I'll bury you in the same dirt I'm saving for them. Understand?"
Torian nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. I understand."
Andre turned to his brother.
"Keep eyes on them," he said. "Every move they make. Every corner they hit. Every phone call. I want to know who they trust and who they don't."
Little Dre nodded. "Alright. But they move smart. They split. Not together."
"They always split," Andre said. "Big Head learned that from Miss Lo. Makes it harder to take them all out at once."
He paused.
"But we don't need all of them."
He lifted his glass.
"Just him."
Jack ran until his ribs felt like they were cracking.
He cut through backyards, hopped fences, squeezed between trash cans, sprinted through alleys so narrow he scraped his shoulders on both walls. Every corner he turned he imagined another car sliding up on him. Every shadow felt like a gun barrel aimed at his spine.
When he finally stopped, he collapsed behind an old shed near a basketball court, gasping for air.
His hands shook as he wiped sweat from his forehead. His heart hammered, still caught between terror and rage. The echo of the gunshots rang in his ears. His finger twitched like it was still pulling a trigger.
He hadn't even seen who he hit.
If he hit anyone at all.
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe. Calm. Slow. Miss Lo used to tell him that when his anxiety got too loud. Storms end faster when you breathe through them, baby.
He felt the storm in his chest now.
He slid his phone out and checked for messages.
Nothing.
He tried calling Psycho.
No answer.
Tried Rob.
Straight to voicemail.
Tried Murk.
Busy.
He hesitated, then tried Big Head.
Two rings.
Then Big Head picked up.
"You good?" Big Head asked.
Jack swallowed hard. "I'm alive."
"Stay low. Don't stay still."
"Where you at?"
"Moving. Murk already set a point. I sent it to your phone."
Jack checked. A pin. Old cleaners.
"I'll get there," Jack said.
"Keep your head down," Big Head replied. "Eastside ain't done."
The line clicked dead.
Jack pocketed the phone, took one more breath, and stood. His legs felt weak but he forced them to move. He couldn't freeze up. Not now. Not when everything was spiraling.
He stepped out from behind the shed and started toward the street.
A rustle came from behind the fence.
He stopped.
His sweat turned cold.
"Hello?" he called softly.
A figure stepped into the light.
Not Eastside.
Not Northside.
Not a cop.
Psycho.
"Damn, boy," Psycho said, grinning even though there was blood splattered across his hoodie. "You run from the bullets or did the bullets run from you?"
Jack let out a shaky breath. "Where the hell did you go?"
"Back window of the store. Slipped between two buildings. One of the Eastside boys tried jumping out the car to chase me. I clipped him in the leg."
"You sure?"
"Oh, I'm sure. He screamed like he paid for that pain."
Jack shook his head. "This shit is getting real."
Psycho wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It always been real. Now it's just loud."
Jack tensed again. "We gotta get to the cleaners."
"Yeah," Psycho said. "But stay sharp. Eastside gon want a second round."
Jack tightened his grip on his weapon.
Psycho nodded once, serious now.
"Let's move."
Rob limped down the abandoned train tracks behind the industrial district, one hand pressed against his ribs. He didn't know when he hurt himself. Maybe when he tackled the store owner. Maybe when he hit the floor behind the counter. Maybe when the bullets smashed through the shelves.
Didn't matter.
Pain kept him focused.
He scanned every shadow, every rooftop, every passing car in the distance. He moved like a ghost, hugging walls and walking in silence, trained by a life of hiding long before he met the boys.
Finally, he reached the old freight building. Half the windows were broken, the front sign rusted, the doors chained shut. He slipped around the back and climbed through a missing panel.
Inside was darkness.
He listened.
Then:
"You bleeding?"
Rob relaxed.
Murk stepped out from behind a stack of old crates, gun in hand, eyes sharp but calm.
"Just bruised," Rob said.
"You sure?"
Rob nodded.
Murk put the gun away. "Big Head hit you?"
"Yeah. Said meet at the cleaners."
Murk gestured toward the door. "Then let's go. But stay on point. They hit hard tonight."
Rob's jaw tightened. "I ain't scared of them."
Murk stared at him for a second, then nodded.
"Good," Murk said. "Because the next twenty-four hours ain't about fear."
"What they about?"
"Survival."
Across the block, Big Head finally reached the cleaners.
The building sat at the edge of the Southside like a forgotten tooth. Faded letters. Yellowed windows. Dust thick on the inside. Perfect hideout.
He knocked twice.
The door opened.
Murk let him in.
Jack and Psycho were already there, catching their breath. Rob arrived a minute later, limping but alive.
They all looked at each other.
Dirty.
Bruised.
Shaken.
Alive.
Big Head closed the door behind Rob and locked it.
Nobody spoke.
Not at first.
The old cleaners smelled like dust and old soap. The lights didn't work, but that was fine. The glow from the street slipped in through cracks in the boarded windows, thin and dirty, enough to paint their faces in strips of gray.
Big Head stood in the middle of the empty floor, hoodie on, gun tucked at his waist. Psycho leaned against a busted counter, chewing on a toothpick like it was somebody's neck. Jack sat on an overturned milk crate, elbows on his knees, eyes bouncing between the others. Rob stood near the back door, listening more than he talked. Murk stayed in the shadows, shoulder against the wall, watching everything.
Nobody was laughing now.
The drive-by had ripped whatever was left of the illusion that they had time to breathe.
"Eastside moved first," Jack said quietly. "They damn near turned that store into confetti."
"And we still here," Psycho replied. "So fuck 'em."
Murk slid his gaze toward Big Head. "They'll be back. Or Andre will. He ain't the type to let a failed hit sit like that. He'll adjust. We should too."
Big Head nodded once. "We will. But we not about to run around wild because they got lucky with a plate number and a trigger man."
Psycho blew out a breath and shook his head. "Man, all this talk sound pretty. But they just sprayed at us in front of the whole hood. Somebody probably posted that shit already. You really think we can 'play it smart' while they spinning the block?"
"We don't got a choice," Big Head said. "Smart is what keeps us breathing."
Psycho straightened, eyes sharp, voice dropping low. "Or we could stop pretending like we some little corner crew and show these bitches who they playing with. They took a shot. We send a message back so loud nobody even think about aiming at us again."
Jack looked between them. "What kind of message?"
Psycho stared straight at Big Head. "Fuck all this waiting. Let's go crazy on these bitches."
The words hung in the air, hot and heavy.
Rob's fingers twitched at his sides. Murk's jaw flexed. Big Head didn't answer right away.
Psycho pushed off the counter and stepped closer. "Look around, bro. We already in it. Mateo got us on a clock. Andre watching the timer. Eastside spraying. Northside peeking. Your uncle somewhere smiling in the dark. What we doing? Hiding in abandoned buildings hoping they forget we breathing?"
Big Head kept his voice calm. "We don't move off emotion."
"Why not?" Psycho snapped. "They did. They slid first. You keep saying we gotta be different. Aight. Then let's be different. Let's be smarter. But smarter don't mean softer. Smarter don't mean slower. Smarter means we choose where the blood hit the floor."
Silence settled again.
Then Murk spoke. "He got a point. If we sit still, they set the board. If we move first, we flip it."
Jack nodded slowly. "We know they scared. That shootout? That was fear. Loud fear."
Rob finally cut in, voice quiet but steady. "You keep warning us about your uncle and Andre and Mateo. But right now, everybody else only scared of them. Nobody scared of us. Not really. They nervous. They whispering. But they not scared yet."
All eyes went back to Big Head.
He looked from face to face. Psycho's hunger. Murk's cold logic. Jack's restless mind. Rob's deep loyalty.
The Southside wouldn't survive by clinging to rules that died with Miss Lo.
Big Head exhaled, slow, controlled.
"Aight," he said. "We move."
Psycho's grin came back instantly. "There he go."
"But we not going crazy," Big Head said. "We going calculated. We going loud and smart. Every move we make tonight gotta mean something. No wild hits just to hear guns echo."
Jack leaned forward. "So who first?"
Before Big Head could answer, Rob's phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room like a blade.
Rob checked the screen. "Keisha."
Psycho laughed low. "Of course it is."
Keisha was one of those girls who knew things. Not because she was messy, but because everybody wanted to impress her. She danced some nights, bartended others, hustled constantly. She had grown up on the Southside, in and out of Miss Lo's kitchen like half the kids in the neighborhood.
"Answer it," Big Head said.
Rob put the call on speaker and held it up.
"Hello?"
"Rob? Oh my God, I been calling everybody. Y'all good?" Her voice rushed through the speaker, thick with smoke and bass from whatever loud place she was standing in.
"We breathing," Rob said. "Why? What you heard?"
"Heard half the city just now," she said. "People saying Eastside tried to paint y'all at Carter's. Folks talking about bodies and everything. I seen videos. Y'all crazy for even being out there."
"We fine," Rob said. "Who told you?"
"Everybody," Keisha said. "Group chats going dumb. Live feeds, too. And listen… since y'all still alive, you need to know something."
Murk's eyes narrowed. "Talk."
Keisha lowered her voice. In the background, music thumped, girls laughed, men shouted over tracks about money and murder.
"Little Dre in here right now," she said. "Been flexing since he walked in. Throwing money like it's growing off his skin. Telling everybody he 'pressed the Southside' tonight. He drunk. Loud. Stupid. He in the VIP acting like he untouchable, for real."
Psycho's smile dropped into something sharper.
"What club?" Big Head asked.
"Valentina's," she said. "Eastside spot. Security light if you got bread. Dre came in with like three dudes and a bottle already in his hand. He got a dancer he keep calling over. Some skinny girl with pink hair he keep trying to pull to the back. Honestly, he look reckless."
Psycho's eyes lit with a cold fire. "That right?"
Keisha kept going. "I ain't telling you what to do. I just know if Eastside came for y'all, y'all not gonna sit on your hands. And I… I owe Miss Lo. She kept me fed when my mom was too high to remember my name. I ain't forget that."
The room went still.
Big Head swallowed once. "You see any of Andre's people with him?"
"No," she said. "Not the old heads. Just little goons. One of them already slid off with some girl. Other two? At the bar trying to look hard."
Big Head nodded slowly. "You with him?"
"Nah," she said. "I'm working. But he clocked me when he came in. Tried to pull me into his section. I told him I was busy. I can get close if I need to. Or I can stay out of it. Your call."
Big Head looked at Psycho.
Psycho stared right back.
"Stay normal," Big Head told her. "Don't mention us. Don't look for us. If anybody ask how we doing, you say you don't know. You ain't seen us."
"Got it," Keisha said. "But Adrian…"
"Yeah?"
"If y'all do what I think you about to do… do it clean. I got enough nightmares."
The line went quiet for a second.
"We got you," Big Head said. "Stay safe."
He hung up.
The cleaners went silent again.
Then Psycho laughed, a low, dangerous sound. "There it is. Gift on a platter."
Jack spoke fast, mind already spinning. "Valentina's is Eastside turf. Their security crooked. Half of them probably on Andre's payroll. That means they're comfortable. Comfortable means sloppy. If Little Dre out there talking reckless, we got a window before word flies back to Andre."
Rob nodded. "And if Keisha is right, his crew light. No old heads. No captains."
Murk tilted his head. "And gunshots in a strip club send a loud message. Everybody talk about it. Everybody remember who did it, even if they don't say names."
Psycho smiled even wider. "Perfect."
Big Head lifted a hand. "Hold up. We not just busting through the front door waving guns. We ain't trying to die in there."
"So how we playing it?" Jack asked.
Big Head thought for a moment, mind flipping through layouts he barely remembered. He had been to Valentina's a few times before. Kept his back to the wall, spent more time watching the exits than the dancers.
"One team in," he said. "Two on the outside."
Psycho nodded immediately. "I'm going in."
Jack raised his hand. "I'm with him."
Big Head studied them, then nodded. Psycho was chaos, but controlled when it mattered. Jack was precise. Together, they could move loud in a quiet way.
"Rob, Murk," Big Head said. "You stay outside. Eyes on the doors. If something goes wrong, you light up any car that tries to pull up with Eastside plates. No civilians. No wild spraying. We only touching them."
Rob nodded without hesitation. Murk's eyes flickered once, then settled. "Got it."
"And you?" Jack asked Big Head.
Big Head adjusted his hoodie. "I'll be close. Watching the street. Watching the clock. If this goes left, somebody gotta stay free and thinking."
Psycho shrugged. "As long as somebody inside gets to pull the trigger, I don't care where you stand."
Jack licked his lips, nerves and adrenaline twisting together in his gut. "You sure about this?"
Big Head looked at each of them again.
"We kill Andre's little brother in his own backyard," he said. "That tells the whole city one thing."
"What's that?" Rob asked.
Big Head's voice dropped.
"That the Southside ain't prey no more."
Valentina's glowed red on the Eastside, a neon wound bleeding light onto the cracked sidewalk. The parking lot was half full, cars lined up crooked, bass rattling from speakers inside and out. Two security guards stood at the door. One checked IDs. The other scanned faces with lazy interest, more concerned with who had money than who had trouble.
Psycho and Jack walked up like they owned the night.
Psycho wore a black hoodie unzipped over a clean white tee, chain glinting at his throat. Jack kept it simple: dark jacket, hat low, hands in his pockets. They didn't look too local, but they didn't look too foreign either. Just two men with money to burn.
"You carrying?" the first security guard asked.
"Nah," Psycho said easily. "Just cash."
He peeled off a few bills and slid them into the man's hand without breaking eye contact.
The guard smiled. "Y'all enjoy yourselves."
Inside, the club was all smoke, perfume, and noise. Red light spilled over bodies moving slow and fast on stage, on couches, in dark corners. Men yelled over music, grabbed at women, flashed money. Bottles glittered in buckets of melting ice.
Jack's eyes scanned quickly. Exits. Corners. Cameras. Staff. Who looked comfortable. Who didn't.
Psycho's eyes scanned for one thing: Little Dre.
They spotted him in the VIP like Keisha said.
He sat in the middle of a semicircle couch, legs spread, arms stretched over the back like a king on a weak throne. A dancer with pink hair sat on his lap, laughing too hard at something he said. Two of his boys stood nearby, one at the rail, one at the bottle table, both trying too hard to look dangerous.
Stacks of bills were scattered across the table and floor. Empty bottles piled like trophies. Dre's chain flashed every time he moved, catching the red light and throwing it back at anyone watching.
He looked exactly like what he was.
Overconfident.
Psycho nudged Jack with his shoulder. "You see it?"
Jack nodded once. "Yeah. Too open. He feel safe."
"We about to fix that."
They moved toward the bar instead of the VIP. No need to rush. No need to stare. Psycho ordered two drinks, left one untouched, let the music wash over him while his mind stayed ice cold.
Jack leaned against the bar, watching the reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. He could see Dre without looking directly at him. See the guards. See the dancers. See Keisha moving between tables, balancing a tray like she had been born doing it.
She caught Jack's reflection and didn't react. Professional. Controlled. Good.
Psycho checked the hallway near the bathrooms. A small sign glowed above it. Two doors. Men. Women. A third door marked "Staff only" deeper down.
He took a sip of his drink and leaned closer to Jack's ear.
"Bathroom," he said. "That's where he dies."
Jack barely moved his lips. "How we pull him in?"
"Keisha," Psycho said. "Or whatever girl he got on his lap. Drunk as he is, we won't have to ask twice."
Jack's throat felt dry, but he nodded. "We got eyes outside. They'll see if backup pulls up."
"Exactly."
They finished their first drink. Psycho slipped away from the bar, circling wide toward the stage, letting the dancers become distractions. He brushed past Keisha as she passed with an empty tray.
"Bathroom," he murmured. "Get him there."
She didn't slow down. Didn't look at him.
"Give me five," she whispered back, almost swallowed by the music.
Psycho slid into the darkness near the hallway. Jack stayed at the bar, playing the role of the man killing time between dances.
Outside, Murk and Rob sat in a car across the street, engine off, watching.
Murk had a pistol resting low on his thigh, out of sight. Rob leaned forward with his forearms on the steering wheel, scanning the lot.
"You nervous?" Rob asked.
Murk shook his head once. "No. You?"
"A little," Rob admitted. "But it feel like the right kind of nervous."
"That's how you know you alive," Murk said. "Dead men only feel one thing."
"What's that?"
"Regret."
Rob smirked, then went quiet again.
Back inside, Keisha made her way back to Dre's section, face neutral. The pink-haired dancer had stepped away to grab something from the bar. Dre sat back, scrolling through his phone with one hand, drink in the other, still laughing with his boys about something none of them would remember.
"Y'all good?" Keisha asked, dropping a few fresh napkins on the table.
"We great," Dre said. "Southside shaking right now. Eastside up."
His friends laughed.
Keisha smiled like it was just another joke. "You look like you celebrating for real. You might want to hit the bathroom before you pass out in here, though. That dance floor don't forgive no accidents."
The table exploded in laughter.
"Damn, Keisha, you wild," one of Dre's boys said.
Dre shook his head, grinning. "You right, though. I do need to piss. Been drinking since nine."
He stood, chain swinging against his chest, and slapped the dancer's thigh as she came back.
"Wait for me, baby. I got you."
He swaggered toward the bathroom hallway, still laughing, still talking trash to anyone who looked his way.
Keisha watched him go, then drifted in the opposite direction, heart pounding, smile never breaking.
In the hallway, the music softened into a muffled thump. The red light dimmed. Dre pushed the men's room door open with his shoulder, still humming to himself.
Psycho was already inside.
He stood at the far sink, washing his hands like any other customer, hood down, face relaxed. Another man finished at the urinal and left, not even looking up.
The door swung shut behind Dre.
"Damn, this club weak," Dre muttered. "They need to fix the—"
He stopped.
His eyes met Psycho's in the mirror.
Recognition flashed there.
Too late.
Psycho turned, calm, eyes empty of everything but purpose. The gun in his hand wore a suppressor, short and ugly, barely a whisper when it fired.
"Southside says hi," Psycho said quietly.
The first shot hit Dre in the chest. The second in the throat. The third in the face as he fell.
He crumpled without drama, without words, without a chance to beg or brag or scream Eastside one last time.
Blood spread across the tile, dark in the low light.
Psycho stepped forward, checked his pulse out of habit. Nothing.
He stared down at the body for a second, breathing steady.
"This ain't even the warning," he murmured. "This the introduction."
He wiped the handle of the stall door lightly, then turned and walked out the bathroom like he had just taken a piss.
Jack saw him emerge, expression unchanged.
"It's done," Psycho said, moving past him. "Count ten. Then we walk out. No rush."
Jack's heart hammered, but he nodded. He finished his drink, left the glass on the bar, and followed Psycho's pace like nothing in the world had shifted.
Inside, the music went on.
Outside, Murk saw the front door open and two familiar silhouettes step out.
"They good," he said.
Rob exhaled. "Any movement?"
"Not yet."
Psycho and Jack walked across the parking lot, neither too fast nor too slow. They climbed into the back seat without a word.
Murk started the engine.
As they pulled away, Rob glanced in the rearview mirror.
The club glowed behind them, still pulsing, still alive, still unaware that its favorite loudmouth just died on a bathroom floor.
Big Head watched from half a block away, leaning against a lamppost, hood up, hands in his pockets. He saw their car glide past and fall in behind it.
He didn't smile.
Didn't celebrate.
He just turned and walked toward the main road, mind already racing past the kill.
Little Dre was gone.
Andre would feel it.
The Eastside would hear it.
The clock was still ticking.
But now, the Southside had pressed the first real piece on the board.
And there was no going back.