The doctor never made it home that night.
The warehouse smelled of rust, damp cement, and old fear, the kind that clung stubbornly to walls long after screams of past tortures had faded. She knelt at the center of the room with trembling hands raised halfway in surrender, her lab coat stained with dust as the cold mouth of a gun pressed against her temple. Around her stood men dressed in dark leather with sharper intentions, their silence heavier than threats. The insignia of the Fox Gang, a white shillouete of a fox glinted faintly under the swinging bulb above, its unstable light carving monsters out of ordinary men. She was terrified because she knew deep down that she might not make it.
"You work for the Rodrigos," one of them said, pacing slowly behind her, boots echoing against concrete. "And we know you are holding information valuable enough to collapse their empire."
She wondered how they had found her, how they had knew about who she worked with
