The night felt heavier than usual, thick with gunpowder and a kind of tension that made the whole city hold its breath. The Southside boys moved through it like shadows that learned how to breathe.
Big Head led from the front, hood up, jaw locked, every step controlled. Psycho stayed a half step behind him, cracking his knuckles in quiet anticipation. Jack walked low and silent, scanning rooftops and alleys. Murk carried the duffel bag that held cutters, gloves, and silencers. Rob moved closest to the street edge, listening for cars that didn't belong.
Mateo's drop spot sat near the river, hidden behind two abandoned shipping containers and a rusted fence. Most people walked past the place without realizing there was a million dollars of dope sitting in the dark.
The cartel normally guarded it with six men.
Tonight, there were only two.
War made people sloppy.
Big Head crouched behind a stack of pallets and raised two fingers. Psycho nodded. He crept forward, moving through shadows like he had been raised in them. Jack took the right side. Murk went left. Rob waited near Big Head with his gun drawn low.
The two guards stood under a broken streetlamp arguing in Spanish, a cigarette glow flashing between their hands.
Jack moved first.
He slipped behind the nearest container and came out behind the taller guard, wrapped an arm around his throat, and dragged him back into the dark. The man struggled once, twice, then went limp.
Psycho handled the second guard.
He walked up like a friend, hands in his pockets. The guard squinted at him but didn't reach for his gun fast enough. Psycho's blade flashed silver in the dark and cut a deep clean line across the man's throat. He caught the body before it hit the ground and dragged it out of sight.
Big Head moved in next. "Clean. Fast. Good."
Murk cut the padlock on the storage unit. The hinges screamed softly as they opened.
Inside were crates.
Five of them.
Wooden, stamped with fake appliance labels. Murk pried open the first one and lifted the plastic-wrapped brick.
"Pure," Murk whispered. "Real cartel weight."
Psycho whistled low. "We flipping this, getting soldiers, buying corners, maybe three cars."
Rob grabbed the next crate. "Focus. We still in enemy territory."
They loaded the duffel bags until the fabric strained at the seams. Big Head lifted his with one hand, testing the weight.
"As soon as we leave, Andre's men or cartel scouts might circle back. Move quiet, move smart."
They moved toward the alley that led back to the street.
That was when they heard tires.
Not slow.
Not casual.
Fast.
A black SUV slid into the alley like it had been waiting for them all night.
Big Head whispered one word.
"Hitmen."
The SUV doors flew open. Four men stepped out, all dressed in dark tactical gear, faces hidden with masks. These weren't local corner shooters. Their movements were too smooth. Too precise.
One of them aimed a long rifle with a suppressor.
Big Head shoved Rob behind a dumpster.
The first round hit the container they just left.
Quiet shot.
Heavy impact.
Psycho grinned like he had been waiting for this.
They spread fast.
Murk dove behind a steel drum. Jack hid behind a fence post with barely enough cover. Big Head slid against the alley wall. Rob drew his gun and held it low.
The hitmen moved forward without speaking.
One of them checked angles like a trained assassin, clearing the alley like a military exercise.
This wasn't a drive-by.
This was an execution.
Big Head fired two shots, both suppressed. One hitman ducked behind the SUV and fired back.
A bullet hit the brick inches from Jack's face.
"We pinned," Jack muttered.
"Fuck that," Psycho said. "We ain't dying in no alley."
He bolted sideways, sprinting toward the far left wall. The hitmen saw him and fired. One round skimmed Psycho's arm, tearing through his hoodie. Another missed his head by inches.
Murk popped up and shot twice, forcing the hitmen back down.
Big Head used the opening to move.
He crawled behind the dumpster, pulling Rob deeper into cover.
"We splitting their angle," Big Head whispered. "They trained but they don't know our alleys."
Psycho found a pile of bricks near a collapsed wall. He grabbed one and threw it as hard as he could behind the SUV. The noise echoed loud.
Two hitmen turned.
Psycho charged the other two.
Jack shot one in the thigh. The man went down but kept firing. These were professionals. No screaming. No panic.
Murk hit another one in the shoulder, spinning him but not dropping him.
Psycho reached the hitman closest to him and slammed him into the wall. They wrestled for control of the gun. The hitman elbowed Psycho hard, almost dislocating his jaw.
Psycho headbutted him twice.
The man fell.
Murk shot him in the side of the head.
Three left.
Big Head whispered to Rob, "Go right. Stay low."
Rob crawled along the wall until he reached a pile of trash bags. He aimed carefully and shot at the hitman with the long rifle. The hitman ducked but Big Head saw white dust spray from the brick. Close.
Jack fired again. This time he hit the hitman's knee. The man dropped, rifle falling from his grip.
Psycho ran over, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed his head into the pavement until the skull cracked.
Murk yelled, "Two left!"
Big Head saw movement behind the SUV. The last two hitmen were trying to flank them from both sides.
He motioned to Jack and Psycho. "Left side. Murk, with me."
They split the alley.
Jack slid behind the rear bumper of the SUV. He heard a whisper of footsteps. The hitman was coming around slow, careful, gun raised.
Jack waited.
When the man's shadow reached the bumper, Jack rose and fired point blank. The bullet entered through the jaw and exited through the back of the head. The hitman fell instantly.
Psycho kicked the body into the dark.
Murk and Big Head moved toward the last hitman, who was already running.
"No survivors," Murk said.
Big Head nodded once.
They chased the man past a fence, up the small incline toward the old train lot. The man was fast, trained, moving with purpose.
But he didn't know the Southside.
He didn't know the gaps and holes and broken concrete that tripped strangers.
He hit one.
Fell hard.
Big Head reached him first.
The hitman rolled over and tried to raise his gun.
Big Head kicked it away.
The man reached for a knife on his vest.
Murk stomped his wrist.
Bones cracked.
The hitman breathed hard through his mask, chest rising.
Big Head kneeled down slowly, staring into the man's hidden eyes.
"You boys must be good," Big Head said calmly. "But you not good enough."
The hitman spat blood at his shoes.
Murk grabbed the man's head by both sides and pulled him up.
Big Head drove his knife straight into the man's throat. Slow, steady, deliberate.
The hitman made a gurgling noise and collapsed.
Murk wiped the blade on the man's vest.
"Southside not to be played with," he said quietly.
They returned to the alley.
The bodies were scattered. The SUV engine was still running. The air smelled like blood, oil, and burned powder.
Psycho kicked one of the hitmen in the ribs. "Out of town my ass."
Jack caught his breath. "That was too close."
Big Head nodded. "Andre ain't playing no more."
Rob zipped the duffel bag closed.
They loaded all the bags into their car and pulled away fast before any patrols arrived.
The moment they hit the main road, Big Head's phone vibrated.
He checked it.
From one of Mateo's lieutenants:
"Your city just became a war zone. Andre losing men tonight."
Big Head stuffed the phone away.
Then another text arrived.
Unknown number.
"Northside saw what you boys did."
Psycho looked back at Big Head. "What's the word?"
Big Head stared ahead as the streetlights slid across the windshield.
"Word is," he said, voice calm and deadly, "Andre ain't sleeping tonight."
"And the cartel?" Jack asked.
Big Head nodded once.
"They hitting Andre's blocks hard."
Murk cracked his knuckles. "Good."
Big Head shook his head. "Not good. We in the middle now."
Rob adjusted his grip on his gun. "What we do?"
Big Head leaned back.
"We move faster," he said. "We grow bigger."
Psycho smirked. "Southside taking over?"
Big Head didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
"We already started," he said quietly. "No turning back now."
The sun had not even cleared the horizon when the alley near the river filled with blue and red lights.
Yellow tape stretched from dumpster to fence. The black SUV still idled in park, its engine finally choked silent by a cop reaching in and turning the key. Four bodies lay in the cold, limbs twisted, dark patches spreading across the cracked concrete.
A uniformed officer gagged quietly near the back, one hand pressed to his mouth.
Detective Harris did not gag. He had seen worse. He had seen it too many times.
He crouched beside the first body, lifting the corner of the man's vest. The gloves, the reinforced stitching, the extra pouches and plates. Everything about the gear screamed money and training.
"These are not our usual corner bangers," Harris said.
Detective Lopez stopped taking pictures long enough to glance over. "Yeah. They look like they stepped out of a movie. Who rolls like this for a Southside alley?"
"Somebody who thought this would be easy," Harris answered.
He pushed the mask back from one face.
Caucasian. Mid thirties. Buzz cut. No tattoos on the neck. No cheap chains. No county jail burn into the eyes. Out-of-town. No doubt.
"Check their guns," Harris said.
Lopez nodded and moved to the nearest weapon. "Suppressors on all of them. Clean. No scratched serials. Somebody paid for this."
Harris straightened and looked around the alley. Bullet holes peppered the walls in tight, controlled clusters. No wild spray patterns. No broken windows halfway up the building. Every shot had gone low, angled toward where someone's body would have been.
"But whoever was on the other side of this," Lopez said, "they did not get paid enough."
Harris moved to the far end of the alley, to the darker corner where one of the bodies lay half in shadow. Blood pooled under the man's head, thick and slow.
The throat wound was deep. Precise. Personal.
"This one was finished by hand," Harris said.
Lopez stepped closer. "You thinking cartel?"
"Maybe," Harris said. "Could be Andre's mess too. He has people. He has enemies. He has an ego bigger than this whole neighborhood."
Lopez lowered her voice. "And Southside?"
Harris stared back toward the street, where a few neighbors watched from behind curtains, phones in their hands, mouths tight.
"Southside Boys been busy," Harris said. "Drive-bys. Strip club rumors. Bodies stacking up that all trace back to the same names whispered over and over. Big Head. Psycho. Murk. Jack. Rob. But this here?" He nodded toward the gear. "This is something new."
"You want to press the neighbors?" Lopez asked.
Harris shook his head. "They did not see anything. If they did, they did not see anything."
He took a long breath and let it out slowly.
"There is a war brewing," Harris said. "We are just the ones sweeping up after the battles."
"And what do we tell the chief?" Lopez asked.
Harris looked at the four bodies, the SUV, the alley that already smelled like decay.
"We tell him what we always tell him," Harris replied. "The city is bleeding. Again."
He turned away, knowing this scene would not be the last.
It was just the opening shot.
Across town, Andre Gatewood stared at a different set of images.
Not crime scene photos. Not news.
Live video.
One of his lieutenants held up a phone with shaking hands. The screen showed four bodies in an alley, surrounded by cops. The angle wobbled as whoever recorded it tried not to be seen.
"These were our boys," the lieutenant said. "The ones from out of town. The SUV is the same. Plates match. They got wiped out."
Andre's jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
"Turn the sound up," he said.
The muffled voice of a reporter drifted through the room. Something about an apparent professional hit. Questions about gang escalation. Mentions of Andre's name without saying it directly.
Andre's eyes never left the bodies.
"How many?" he asked.
"Four," the lieutenant said. "All of them. Dead. No witnesses so far. Police did not recover any ID."
Torian stood by the doorway, pale and sweating.
"I told you they were good," Torian said. "Those boys knew what they were doing. For them to die like this… whoever they ran into is not regular."
Andre turned his head slowly.
"You are breathing," Andre said. "You should focus on that miracle."
Torian swallowed.
Andre walked to the glass wall that overlooked the Eastside street below. The sun had not risen enough to warm anything. The world still felt cold and gray.
"Somebody out there killed my brother," Andre said quietly. "Somebody out there killed four trained hitmen. Somebody out there robbed cartel drops and walked away."
The room stayed silent.
"And every rumor that comes back to me," Andre continued, "has the same name in it."
He tapped his finger against the glass.
"That Southside kid," he said. "Miss Lo's boy. Southside is starting to act like they are not trapped anymore."
The lieutenant shifted. "You want more out-of-town? I know some people in Detroit, Chicago, even Houston. They will come in quiet."
Andre shook his head once.
"No," he said. "No more strangers. No more outsiders. They do not know the rhythm of these streets. They do not know who hides behind which curtains. They do not know how the alleys twist."
He turned back to the room.
"This city belongs to people who grew up in it," Andre said. "And right now, it is trying to decide who it belongs to next."
Torian cleared his throat carefully. "Boss, we still got money, corners, soldiers. Southside is just one crew. The cartel is making noise because they took a shot at Mateo. They will calm down once they get blood back. We can push through."
Andre stared at him like he was measuring his soul.
"You really think the cartel will forget that I tried to cut their snake?" Andre asked.
Torian did not answer.
Andre's voice dropped lower.
"And you think I am going to sleep while that Southside kid builds an army on the Southside with my name in his mouth?" Andre asked.
Torian opened his hands. "Then say it. What you want done?"
Andre nodded once.
"Shut everything down," Andre said. "No more clubs. No more flashy nights. No more bottle parades. We stop being seen anywhere that is not ours."
The lieutenant blinked. "Boss, that will make people think we scared."
Andre smiled, but there was nothing warm in it.
"Good," he said. "Let them think I am scared. Let them think I am hiding. Scared men are quiet. Quiet men are underestimated. Unestimated men kill you while you are talking."
He stepped closer to the map pinned on his wall. Several blocks were marked in green. His strongest corners. His oldest traps. His longest-running spots.
"These," Andre said, pointing, "are all the places I ever trusted. That means they are all compromised. Gatewood crews will clear them tonight. No product. No cash. Nothing stays where it has always stayed."
The lieutenant almost choked. "But that is half your operation."
Andre nodded. "Then half my operation is wrong."
He dragged his finger to the Southside mark, to the block that had been quiet for years under Miss Lo.
"Find me leverage," Andre said. "Friends. Family. Weakness. I do not care who. I want something that will hurt Miss Lo's boy more than bullets."
Torian forced himself to speak. "We can go at the people who used to be close to Miss Lo. That daughter who disappeared. The kids she used to feed. The old heads she broke bread with."
Andre's eyes sharpened.
"The daughter," he said. "What is her name again?"
"Lorena," the lieutenant answered. "Goes by Lo. Same as her mother. Been in and out of the Southside the last few days. People say she and Big Head ran into each other again."
Andre nodded slowly.
"Start there," he said. "Find her. Do not touch her yet. Just watch. If Miss Lo's boy cares about her the way I think he does…"
He smiled, cold and thin.
"She might be the rope I pull to drag him under."
The city did not wait for his orders.
It moved on its own.
On one of Andre's strongest blocks, near a liquor store with bars welded over every window, a group of his soldiers stood on the corner tossing dice. Music thumped from a car parked sideways at the curb. Two lookouts watched the street, chatting lazily about a girl who used to live down the block.
Headlights appeared and disappeared at the far end of the street, barely noticed.
A dark SUV rolled closer. Not Andre's. Not from the neighborhood.
One of the lookouts squinted. "You know that ride?"
"Nah," the other said. "Probably just some lost suit."
The SUV kept gliding.
The windows stayed up.
No music.
No yelling.
When it pulled up in front of the corner, the engine did not cut off.
The back door opened.
Three men stepped out.
They did not look like Eastside locals. Their hair was cropped clean. Their shirts were tucked. Their eyes were flat.
One of Andre's boys puffed his chest. "You lost, homie?"
The man closest smiled slightly. "No. We exactly where we are supposed to be."
The first shot came from the SUV window. A short burst, close, controlled. The loudest thing on the block was not the gun itself. It was the sound of the first body hitting the ground.
Andre's soldiers scrambled for their guns. Two never got them out of their waistbands. A third fired blindly, hitting nothing.
The three men moved like a machine. One on the left, one on the right, one covering the center. They walked their shots across the sidewalk, cutting people down before they could even think about running.
The liquor store owner hit the floor behind the counter and started praying under his breath.
A stray dog bolted under a car and did not come back out.
Within twenty seconds, the corner was silent except for the sputter of a dying car stereo.
The leader of the three men walked over to the largest body and nudged it with his boot. He checked the chain, the ring, the tattoos.
"Gatewood's," he said. "That is one."
He spit on the ground, turned, and got back in the SUV.
They left as quietly as they came.
No tags sprayed.
No slogans shouted.
Just bodies cooling on cement.
On another block, not far from one of Andre's stash spots, a row of abandoned houses leaned toward each other like crooked teeth. One of the middle houses was not actually empty. It had boarded windows like the rest, but the front door was stronger, newer. The paint around the knob was less faded.
Inside, five men sat at a table counting money. A shotgun rested against the wall near the door. Nobody touched it. They were inside. They felt safe.
One of the men laughed. "Andre got the whole city talking again. Took a shot at a cartel boss. That is wild."
"Means he got heart," another said. "Or no brain."
The man at the head of the table smirked. "He got both. That is why we still eating."
Outside, a van rolled to a stop.
The driver stayed behind the wheel. The two men in the back slid out and moved toward the house.
The first one carried a small black case.
The second one lit a cigarette, took one drag, and put it out without enjoying it.
"Third house," he said. "Front and back doors. Quick in. Quick out."
They stepped onto the porch and pressed a small tube connected to a charge against the frame near the lock. The adhesive bit into the wood. The man with the case opened it and pulled out a second device.
"Ready?" he asked.
The other nodded.
Inside, one of Andre's soldiers frowned. "You hear that?"
"Hear what?"
He stood, walked toward the front door, and put his hand against it.
The charge blew.
The door ripped inward and slammed into him, snapping his nose and teeth in one motion. He hit the floor before he could scream.
The two men walked in through smoke and splinters.
They did not waste bullets.
They placed them.
Two in the chest of the man closest to the kitchen. One in the forehead of the man reaching for the shotgun. Two more across the table. One tried to duck behind a chair. The bullet tore through the chair and his shoulder. He spun and fell.
The last man scrambled toward the back of the house, slipping on dropped cash.
He made it to the hallway.
The second shooter grabbed him by the back of his shirt and slammed him against the wall.
"Please," the man choked out. "Please, I got kids."
The shooter looked him up and down.
"If you cared about them," he said, "you would have chosen another job."
He shot him twice in the chest.
They left the bodies among scattered bills and blood.
The driver pulled the van away with no headlights on.
The house looked just like it had before. Torn door. Broken frame.
But now it smelled like death.
News moved fast.
Sirens screamed across the Eastside. Police cars raced from one crime scene to another, already behind before they left the station. Radios crackled with overlapping calls. Shots fired on one block. Explosions on another. Possible gang war escalation all over the board.
In the Southside cleaners, the boys listened to the chaos like people listening to a distant storm.
Big Head had the radio low.
One station played music.
The next station played fear.
"…multiple incidents reported in the last three hours, authorities are investigating what appears to be coordinated attacks on known Eastside areas. Sources confirm several individuals with ties to Andre Gatewood have been killed…"
Jack shook his head. "Cartel wasting no time."
Psycho grinned. "They petty. I like it."
Murk stayed quiet, sitting at the edge of the counter with his gun on his lap, cleaning it even though it was already clean.
Rob stood near the window, peeking through the thin crack in the boards. "Cops everywhere. No way they do not end up here later."
"They will," Big Head said. "But not yet. Right now, this is Eastside's show."
He turned the radio down.
"What we do while the whole city screaming?" Psycho asked.
Big Head looked at the duffel bags stacked behind the counter. The ones filled with cartel product from the river drop.
"We work," he said.
He dragged one of the bags forward and unzipped it.
The bricks gleamed through the plastic.
"This is our future," Big Head said. "If we play it right."
Jack crouched beside the bag. "We need corners. Runners. People we can trust to move this slow."
Murk nodded. "And we need safe houses. More than one. The cleaners is good, but if this place ever gets burned…"
"We spread it out," Rob said. "Different blocks. Different stashes. Nobody knows everything but us."
Big Head straightened.
"There are already people out there looking for a new flag," he said. "Andre is losing blocks. The cartel only cares about their routes. Northside is staying quiet but they watching. That leaves a lot of small-timers in the middle with no home."
Psycho grinned. "So we give them one."
"Not everyone," Jack said. "We do not need reckless idiots who shoot grandmas because they got scared. We need soldiers. People who listen."
Big Head nodded. "We start with the ones Miss Lo used to feed. Kids who grew up watching her hold the block together. They know who we are. They know why we doing this."
Rob rubbed his jaw. "You think they ready for this kind of heat?"
"They are already in it," Big Head said. "They just do not know it yet."
Later that night, they walked the Southside streets in smaller groups.
Big Head and Rob hit the block near the playground where everything started. They found three younger boys posted by the broken swings, passing a blunt and sharing a bottle like that made them grown.
One of them, Tee, had eyes that moved fast, catching every car that rolled by.
"Tee," Big Head called.
Tee stiffened. "Big Head. I heard they had the whole liquor store shot up. That true?"
Big Head stopped in front of him. "You want to ask questions or you want a future?"
Tee swallowed. "I want both."
Rob smirked. "Then listen."
Big Head reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped bundle. Not much. Just enough to be real.
"We building something," Big Head said. "Not for Mateo. Not for Andre. Not for the North. For the Southside. But anybody who runs with us follows rules."
"What rules?" Tee asked.
"No talking to cops. No crossing kids. No hitting family houses," Big Head said. "And no taking shots just because your pride got hot."
Tee nodded quickly. "That already how I move."
"We will see," Big Head said. "You hold this down. Move quiet. Bring the money straight back. You try to skim, you disappear. You do right, you eat. And when it is time to stand up, you stand."
Tee took the bundle like it weighed more than gold.
"I am in," he said.
Big Head nodded once and moved on.
Across another block, Psycho and Murk talked to two older hustlers who had been running nickel bags on corners Andre did not care about. The men eyed Psycho suspiciously at first.
"You Southside boys think you running something now?" one asked.
Psycho grinned. "We know we are. The question is what you doing. Still begging Eastside for crumbs?"
Murk laid a single brick on the table between them. The effect was instant. Both men stared, breathing just a little faster.
"You work this under us," Murk said quietly. "You do not answer to Andre. You do not answer to Mateo. You answer to Big Head."
"And if Andre comes asking questions?" one of the men said.
Psycho's smile faded.
"Then you tell him the truth," Psycho said. "Southside is off the leash."
On the Eastside, the chaos did not stop.
One of Andre's oldest blocks found itself under a different kind of attack. Not bullets. Fire.
Two cars exploded within minutes of each other. The first at the corner where his men liked to lean. The second outside a building where his cousin stayed with his family. The fires climbed up the walls like orange hands clawing at the sky.
People screamed. Children cried. Mothers dragged kids out of rooms still filling with smoke.
The firefighters arrived late.
The fear arrived early.
Word spread that someone had seen unfamiliar men leaving the area before the cars blew. Men who spoke Spanish under their breath and did not wait to watch their own work.
Andre watched all of it from his phone, from videos sent by different people who owed him different favors.
He sat alone in his study.
The map on his wall looked smaller now. Less like a kingdom, more like a battlefield filled with bodies he had not buried yet.
He zoomed in on one of the videos. The flames reflected off the windows of a car in the background. In that reflection, for a split second, he saw a familiar shape.
A sedan.
Not his.
Not the cartel's standard SUVs.
A Southside car.
He cursed under his breath.
"That Southside kid," he whispered. "You playing with giants."
He poured himself another drink, but his hand shook for the first time.
He did not spill.
He just noticed.
He sat back and closed his eyes for a second.
When he opened them, the fear was gone. Replaced by something sharper.
If he could not outgun the cartel without burning everything he had built, he would have to outthink them.
And if he could not reach Miss Lo's boy with bullets, he would reach him with something else.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number he had not used in years.
A woman answered. Her voice was tired, suspicious, already annoyed.
"Who is this?"
"Somebody who knew Miss Lo," Andre said. "And somebody who knows where her daughter sleeps now."
The line went silent.
Then the woman spoke again.
"What you want?"
Andre smiled without humor.
"I want to break a boy who thinks he is a king," he said. "And you are going to help me."
Back in the cleaners, the boys stacked the last of the bricks into different duffel bags, ready to move them to different hideouts.
Jack scribbled notes on a piece of cardboard. Corners. Names. Percentages. Drop points. Times.
Psycho leaned back in a chair, watching the new structure being born.
Rob checked his gun again and finally let out a breath.
Murk sat with his back against the wall, eyes half closed, but his mind very awake.
Big Head stood in the center of the room, looking at all of them.
"We are in it now," he said. "No going back to what we were. No more small-time. No more surviving on scraps."
Jack nodded. "We building something Miss Lo never got the chance to finish."
"And we painting targets on our backs while we do it," Rob said.
Psycho smiled. "Good. Let them aim."
Murk opened his eyes.
"War on the Eastside. Cartel in the middle. Cops waking up. Andre bleeding. Northside watching," Murk said. "Everything tightening."
Big Head felt it too.
The city shrinking around them like a fist.
"It is blood in the water," he said. "Everyone is circling. But they keep forgetting one thing."
"What is that?" Jack asked.
Big Head's gaze hardened.
"The Southside can bite too."
He picked up his gun and tucked it into his waistband.
"Rest for a couple hours," he said. "Because when the sun comes up, we move again."
No one argued.
They knew sleep would not come easy.
Behind their eyes, they could already see the next bodies that would fall.
And somewhere, in a hospital room across town, Mateo lay in critical condition, machines breathing for him, the heartbeat on the monitor stubborn and slow.
The city did not know it yet.
But soon, even that quiet room would not be safe.