Hospitals had their own weather.
It was not rain or wind. It was not heat or cold. It was the hum of fluorescent lights that never truly turned off, the soft squeal of shoes on polished tile, the thin smell of sanitizer layered over old fear. It was the way people spoke in half voices even when nobody asked them to. Like the building itself demanded quiet, and punished anything loud.
Tonight the hospital was quieter than usual.
Not because less people were there. There were always people. Nurses in motion, families with tired eyes, security guards trying not to look bored, patients coughing into pillows and thinking about their own endings.
It was quieter because the city outside was at war, and the war had started bringing its injured into clean rooms.
That changed everything.
On the fourth floor, past a double set of doors that required a badge swipe and a code, Mateo lay in a private room with the blinds partly drawn. The monitors beside his bed beeped in steady patterns, trying to convince the world he was stable. The IV lines ran into his arm like veins that did not belong to him. The oxygen tube rested beneath his nose. His chest rose and fell like it cost him money to breathe.
He had survived the shooting outside El Faro. That part was true.
But survival did not mean safety. Survival only meant he was still available for punishment.
His eyes opened slowly. Heavy. Drugged. Still sharp enough to register the sound of footsteps in the hall, the small click of a latch, the faint shift of air as the door opened.
A woman entered.
She was not new to the floor. She belonged there the way the machines did. Her scrubs were the same blue as everyone else's. Her hair was pulled back tight, not for style, but for cleanliness. Her badge swung slightly as she walked, the plastic catching the fluorescent light.
ELENA VARGAS, RN.
Most people called her Lena.
She pushed the door closed behind her, quiet and controlled. She checked the wall clock, then the monitor, then the chart on the foot of the bed. Her face did not reveal anything. That was her gift. That was why she was trusted.
Mateo watched her without moving, measuring.
When you ran with men like La Sombra, you learned to measure everyone. You learned that danger did not always announce itself with a gun. Sometimes it wore a uniform. Sometimes it carried a clipboard. Sometimes it smiled at you while it tightened the rope.
Mateo swallowed, throat dry.
"Water," he rasped.
Lena did not flinch. She stepped closer, checked his lips, checked his color. "You can't drink yet."
Mateo's eyes narrowed. "Why not."
"Because your body is fighting," she said. "Because your meds will make you choke if you sip too fast. Because you are not as strong as you think you are right now."
The last line landed like a slap. Mateo tried to lift his hand, but the effort made his chest ache. He grunted and let his arm fall back to the sheet.
"Where my people," he asked.
Lena glanced at the door. "Your people are outside."
"Which ones."
"Security would not let more than two stay past visiting hours," she said calmly. "Your men argued. They lost."
Mateo's jaw tightened.
He hated rules. He hated being handled. He hated anyone telling him what he could do with his own body. It was not pride. It was instinct. Power did not come from guns alone. Power came from control.
He had been built on control.
And now he was laying in a bed that smelled like bleach, unable to even sit up without pain.
He stared at the ceiling, breathing through his nose.
"Who shot me," he whispered.
Lena adjusted the IV bag with practiced hands. "You already know what people are saying."
"I want truth."
Lena did not answer immediately. She moved to the side of the bed where the heart monitor sat. She checked the leads and the numbers, then stepped slightly to block the camera's view of her hands. The camera in the corner of the room was small, but Mateo noticed it. He noticed everything.
Lena leaned in close, her voice dropping.
"Truth is dangerous in a place like this," she said. "Walls have ears. Cameras have eyes. And the wrong kind of people have keys."
Mateo turned his head slowly, looking at her for the first time like she was not just a nurse.
"Who are you," he asked.
Lena held his gaze, steady. "A person with a job."
"That is not what I asked."
Lena's face remained calm, but her eyes sharpened just enough to show she understood exactly what he meant.
Mateo tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. "You scared of me."
"I am cautious," Lena corrected.
Mateo exhaled slowly. "Cautious people live longer."
Lena did not respond to that. She checked the chart again, then tapped something into a handheld device. Her fingers were steady. No shaking. No hesitation. She had the hands of someone who had done hard things and kept doing them.
Mateo watched those hands like they were the real story.
"How old are you," he asked.
Lena looked up. "Old enough."
"That is not an answer."
"You ask too many questions for a man who should be sleeping," Lena said.
Mateo's lips twitched. "Sleep is for people who are safe."
Lena's expression did not change, but the air between them did.
She lowered her voice again. "Then you should understand something."
Mateo waited.
"This floor is not safe," Lena said. "Not for you."
Mateo stared at her. "You threatening me."
"No," she replied. "I am informing you."
Mateo's breathing turned heavier. It hurt. Everything hurt. But fear made pain sharper. Fear made the body remember it could still fight.
"Who coming," he demanded.
Lena stepped back, eyes scanning the hallway through the narrow glass window in the door. No one was outside, at least not close.
She spoke without looking at him. "If you were smart, you would stop believing you are the center of the storm. You are just one lightning strike."
Mateo's mouth opened. Then closed. He swallowed again.
"You cartel," he whispered.
Lena turned her head slightly, just enough to show him the answer was no.
"You Andre's," Mateo tried.
Lena's silence was long.
Mateo's heart rate ticked up on the screen.
"Who," he asked again, now quieter.
Lena stepped closer to the bed. Her voice was soft and controlled, like she was explaining instructions to a patient.
"You should have stayed in your lane," she said. "You let the Eastside use you. You let Andre's grief and pride turn you into a weapon. Now your boss is angry. Andre is furious. And the streets are starving for a body that means something."
Mateo's eyes widened slightly.
"You know La Sombra," he said.
Lena did not confirm it. She did not deny it.
Mateo's voice grew weak, but it still carried arrogance. "La Sombra does not move without reason."
Lena nodded once. "Exactly."
Mateo tried to push himself up. The pain in his ribs stopped him halfway. He grunted, sweating.
Lena placed a hand on his shoulder, not gentle, not rough. Firm. A warning disguised as care.
"Do not move," she said. "Your wounds will open."
Mateo's breath came in short bursts. "Get Rafael."
Lena's lips pressed together in something close to sympathy. "Rafael is handling fires. Too many of them. He cannot sit here and babysit a man who keeps finding reasons to be shot."
Mateo's eyes flashed. "I am not just a man."
Lena looked him dead in the face. "Tonight you are."
Mateo stared at her, trying to decide whether she was brave or stupid.
Brave people died often. Stupid people died faster.
But Lena did not look like either. She looked like someone who had already decided which way the world would go and was simply waiting for it to catch up.
Mateo swallowed and tried to calm his breathing.
"You got family," Mateo asked suddenly. "You got kids."
Lena's expression did not change.
"That is why I do my job," she said.
Mateo's eyes searched her. "You want money."
Lena shook her head. "Not from you."
Mateo clenched his jaw. "Then what do you want."
Lena did not answer right away. She reached into the drawer by the bed and pulled out gloves, snapping them on without a sound. She checked the IV line again.
Then she leaned closer, voice low enough to be a secret.
"I want you to stop being a problem," she said.
Mateo froze.
His eyes dropped to her hands.
One of them held the IV tubing. The other moved toward the port where medication could be injected. Small. Easy. Invisible.
Mateo's throat tightened. "Wait."
Lena's face softened slightly, like she almost regretted what she was about to do. Almost.
"You should have died outside that restaurant," she whispered. "That would have been clean. A story the city could accept. But you lived."
Mateo tried to lift his hand, tried to grab the railing, tried to do anything that would change the angle of the moment. His muscles betrayed him. His body was too weak.
"You do not have to," he rasped. "La Sombra will kill you."
Lena's eyes remained steady. "Not if he already approved it."
Mateo's pupils widened.
Lena slid a syringe from her scrub pocket. Clear fluid. No label. No warning. Just a small amount that meant everything.
Mateo's mouth opened. "Please."
The word sounded foreign coming from him. Like it did not belong in his mouth. Like it hurt more than the bullets.
Lena did not mock him. She did not smile. She simply injected the syringe into the port with the same precision she used to give pain medication.
It took seconds.
Mateo felt the cold first. A spreading sensation in his chest. Then the pressure. Then a strange floating feeling, like his body was trying to leave him before he was ready.
His breathing turned shallow. The beeping on the monitor changed.
Lena stepped back and reached for the call button. She pressed it once, then again, more urgently, her voice rising to match the performance.
"Doctor," she called loudly toward the hall. "Doctor, I need help in here."
Footsteps appeared almost immediately.
Mateo's eyes rolled slightly. He fought to focus. The room blurred. He saw Lena's face in the corner of his vision, calm again, watching.
He tried to speak. No sound came out.
A doctor rushed in. Another nurse. They checked his vitals. They moved fast.
"His heart rate," the nurse said.
"BP dropping," the doctor responded.
Mateo's eyes tracked Lena. He wanted to point. He wanted to scream. He wanted to drag the truth out of his throat with his own fingers.
But the city had taken his voice.
Lena stood near the wall, hands clasped, doing the exact pose of a concerned nurse watching a patient crash. She had done it before. That was the scariest part.
The monitor spiked once. Then dipped.
The doctor shouted orders. Someone grabbed the defibrillator.
Mateo's chest rose once more, then stuttered.
The line flattened.
A long, continuous tone filled the room.
The sound was not loud. It did not need to be. It cut through everything.
They worked him anyway. Compressions. Medication. Another shock.
Mateo's body twitched, then went still.
The doctor's face tightened. "Again."
They tried again. The line remained flat.
Time passed in a blur of motion and failure.
Then the doctor stepped back slowly, removing gloves as if he could remove responsibility with them.
He checked the clock.
"Time of death," he said quietly. "Two fourteen."
Silence sat in the room like a heavy thing.
Mateo lay still beneath the sheet, eyes half open, staring at nothing.
Lena exhaled once.
No one looked at her. No one questioned her. She was part of the environment, like the light and the beeping machine that no longer beeped.
Another nurse asked softly, "What happened."
The doctor shook his head. "Complication. He was unstable. Trauma. Too much blood loss. It could have been anything."
Lena nodded as if she agreed, as if she had not been the reason.
When the staff finally left, when the room returned to quiet, Lena remained. She walked to the bed and looked down at Mateo's face. She did not touch him. She did not pray. She simply observed the finality of the thing.
Then she reached under his pillow.
She pulled out a small phone.
Not his. It belonged to one of his men, slipped there earlier when security was distracted.
Lena typed one message with calm fingers.
It's done.
She sent it to a number that was not saved in the phone.
Then she deleted the sent message. Deleted the draft. Cleared the call log. Wiped it clean like she wiped blood off countertops at the end of her shift.
She placed the phone back under the pillow and straightened the sheet.
For anyone watching later, it would look like routine care.
She checked the camera in the corner again, then moved to the door.
As her hand touched the handle, a voice spoke behind her.
Quiet. Weak. Not Mateo's.
A man sat in a chair near the window, barely visible in the dim light. He had been there the whole time, silent.
Lena's body went still. Not from fear. From respect.
"Was it clean," the man asked.
Lena turned her head slightly. "Yes."
The man's face stayed half in shadow, but Lena recognized him. Everyone in that world recognized him.
Rafael.
Mateo's lieutenant.
He did not stand. He did not approach. He sat like a judge who did not need to raise his voice.
"Did anyone see you," he asked.
"No," Lena replied.
Rafael nodded slowly. "Good."
Lena's eyes hardened. "This was the last time."
Rafael's voice was calm. "You said that the first time you helped."
Lena clenched her jaw. "This was different."
Rafael studied her. "Was it."
Lena did not answer.
Rafael leaned back slightly, looking at Mateo's body. "He was a problem. He began to think he could speak on behalf of a boss he could never understand. He made promises to street boys. He played with Andre. He got shot. And then he lived."
He paused.
"Men who live after warnings start thinking warnings are jokes."
Lena's voice was sharp now. "So you made him an example."
Rafael's eyes stayed cold. "No. Andre will make him an example."
Lena frowned. "Andre did not kill him."
Rafael's mouth twitched in something that was not quite a smile. "That does not matter."
Lena understood then. That sinking realization. That sick certainty.
The city did not need truth. The city needed a story it could believe. And right now, the story was already writing itself.
Andre shot him outside the restaurant. Andre hit his warehouses. Andre burned his corners. Andre tried to cut the snake's head.
Now Mateo died in a hospital.
Who else would the streets blame.
Lena's throat tightened. "You are going to let Andre take the blame."
Rafael nodded. "Yes."
"And that starts a war bigger than the one already happening," Lena said.
Rafael's voice remained calm. "The war is already here. We are only choosing which side bleeds first."
Lena looked back at Mateo's body. "He had family."
Rafael's eyes did not soften. "So do all men. That does not keep them alive."
Lena swallowed. "You told me this was to stop the fighting."
Rafael tilted his head. "I told you it was to end a problem. You assumed the problem was the war."
Lena's hands tightened. "You used me."
Rafael's voice stayed even. "You volunteered."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Rafael spoke again, quieter, more dangerous.
"La Sombra does not forgive weakness," he said. "Mateo became weakness. A liability. A loud mouth in a moment where we need quiet knives."
Lena stared at him. "And what am I."
Rafael looked at her like she was a tool that had done its job. "You are what you have always been. A woman with access."
Lena's eyes flashed. "Do not call me that."
Rafael stood slowly, finally moving toward the bed. He looked down at Mateo's face.
"He will be mourned," Rafael said. "His men will cry. Then they will pick up guns. That is how mourning works in our world."
Lena's voice was low. "And Andre."
Rafael's gaze lifted. "Andre will suffer."
Lena took a step back. "This will burn the whole city."
Rafael nodded once. "Good."
Lena stared at him like she was seeing the real monster for the first time.
Rafael turned toward the door.
Before he left, he paused beside Lena and spoke in a near whisper.
"Go home," he said. "Sleep. Act normal. You are a nurse. That is your armor."
Lena's jaw clenched. "And if police ask questions."
Rafael's eyes stayed calm. "Then you tell them the truth. He died from complications."
He opened the door.
Then he stopped again.
"And Lena," he said.
She looked at him.
Rafael's voice dropped. "Do not start believing you can leave this world clean. Nobody leaves clean."
He walked out.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot.
Lena stood there for a long time, staring at Mateo's body. Not because she felt sorry. She had learned not to waste sympathy on men like him.
She stared because she understood what this meant.
The city would not hear "complications."
The city would hear "murder."
And the streets would decide who deserved to pay.
By dawn, the rumor started in whispers.
It moved through nurses' mouths, through security guards' texts, through the waiting room where cartel soldiers sat with hard eyes and hidden blades.
Mateo did not make it.
Somebody finished him.
A man in the waiting room took a call and stepped outside. His voice was low. Spanish. Angry.
Within minutes, another man left. Then another.
They moved like a hive waking up.
On the Eastside, a phone buzzed in a lieutenant's pocket.
He read the message once.
Then again.
Then he swallowed and walked into Andre's quiet office above the shuttered club.
Andre sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at a map that now looked more like a graveyard.
"Boss," the lieutenant said carefully. "It happened."
Andre did not look up. "What happened."
The lieutenant hesitated. "Mateo. He died."
Andre's head lifted slowly.
The room went colder.
"Say it again," Andre said.
"Mateo is dead," the lieutenant repeated. "Hospital."
Andre stared at him with eyes that showed no emotion at first.
Then the calculation came.
The recognition.
The understanding of how stories spread.
"How," Andre asked.
The lieutenant swallowed. "They saying complications. But street chatter already blaming us."
Andre's jaw tightened so hard his cheek twitched.
"Of course they are," he murmured.
Because Andre had shot him outside El Faro. Andre had burned warehouses. Andre had attacked cartel corners. Andre had made it public enough for the city to see.
Now Mateo died under clean lights and IV lines.
The cartel would not accept "complications."
They would accept vengeance.
Andre stood up.
"What is Rafael doing," he asked.
The lieutenant shook his head. "We do not know. But La Sombra is moving. We heard he called in hitters. Not locals. Not street. Real teams."
Andre's eyes narrowed.
He thought of the four hitmen he already lost in that alley by the river. Men he paid too much to die too fast.
He thought of Southside moving like ghosts.
He thought of Lo's photo in the envelope.
He thought of how the city was shifting away from him, not because he lacked power, but because control was slipping.
Andre walked to the window and stared at the street below, watching a patrol car creep by like it was afraid of what it might see.
"They will blame me," Andre said quietly.
The lieutenant nodded. "Yes, boss."
Andre's voice dropped. "And that means I do not have time."
The lieutenant's eyes widened slightly. "Time for what."
Andre turned, gaze sharp.
"Time to play patient," Andre said.
He grabbed his coat.
"Because if La Sombra decides I killed Mateo," Andre continued, "he is coming with everything."
The lieutenant swallowed. "What you want us to do."
Andre's expression stayed calm, but the calm was sharp now. It was the calm of a man who had stopped pretending the world could be reasoned with.
"We move first," Andre said.
He stepped past the lieutenant toward the door.
"And we make sure," Andre added, voice low, "that when they start shouting my name in the streets, they are shouting it over bodies."
Across the city, Big Head's burner phone buzzed on the table in the cleaners.
Murk picked it up first, eyes narrowing as he read the message. He handed it to Big Head without saying a word.
Big Head read it once.
Then again.
Mateo dead.
Hospital.
No details.
No explanation.
Just death.
Psycho stepped into the doorway, face tight. "That real."
Big Head did not blink. "Yeah."
Rob's voice came over the mic from outside, low and urgent. "You hearing this. People already saying Andre did it."
Jack stared at Big Head. "If the cartel believes that, Andre's finished."
Big Head's mouth barely moved. "Andre might be finished."
Murk's eyes darkened. "And if Andre is cornered, he is going to bite hard."
Big Head nodded slowly.
Because he understood the new board.
Mateo's death was a match dropped into gasoline. The cartel would not ask for proof. They would ask for blood. Andre would retaliate. The cops would tighten. The Northside would watch.
And Southside would be stuck in the middle.
Unless they moved.
Unless they became the force that made the middle irrelevant.
Big Head looked around at his crew. The men who had learned to survive, then learned to build.
"We do not celebrate," he said quietly.
Psycho frowned. "Why not. Cartel going to cook Andre."
Big Head's gaze stayed hard. "Because when giants fight, the ground breaks under everybody."
Jack swallowed. "So what is the move."
Big Head exhaled once.
"We keep Lo covered," he said. "Nothing changes."
Rob's voice tightened. "Andre's going to move on her faster now."
"I know," Big Head replied.
Murk leaned forward. "And Mateo's death. That is going to bring attention. More eyes."
Big Head nodded. "That is why we go quiet today. And tonight we pick who we hurt."
Silence filled the cleaners.
Not fear. Not doubt.
Purpose.
Because the war had entered a new phase now.
Not the loud phase.
Not the phase of street beef and quick murders.
This was the phase where the cleanest kills caused the messiest consequences.
And somewhere in a hospital room that would soon be scrubbed and reset for the next patient, Mateo lay dead beneath a white sheet.
The city would call it tragedy.
The streets would call it a declaration.
And Andre Gatewood, staring at his own shrinking kingdom, would call it the moment he stopped pretending he could win with pride.
Outside, the sun rose higher, bright enough to show everything.
But the city was already moving like the lights were off.
By nightfall, the city had chosen its story.
Nobody talked about complications. Nobody talked about IVs or heart rates or sterile rooms. Nobody said Mateo died because a nurse touched the wrong line at the wrong time.
The streets said Andre Gatewood finished him.
That was all anyone needed.
On the Eastside, candles appeared before the sun went down. People who had never met Mateo posted his picture like they had known him their whole lives. His name moved through phones, through corners, through whispered conversations in barbershops and back rooms.
The cartel did not release a statement. They never did. Silence was how they sharpened knives.
But movement told the truth.
Cars with plates from out of state rolled into the city one by one. Not loud. Not flashy. Clean. Quiet. Men stepped out wearing clothes that did not wrinkle easily and shoes that had never touched cracked pavement before. They did not post up. They did not argue. They did not smile.
They checked into hotels near highways. They rented storage units. They bought burner phones and did not save numbers.
La Sombra had decided Andre Gatewood would bleed.
Andre felt it before anyone told him.
He stood in his office above the shuttered club, jacket off, sleeves rolled, watching the street like it might confess something if he stared long enough. His phone buzzed every few minutes with updates that all sounded the same.
Another car burned.
Another soldier did not check in.
Another block went quiet.
Torian sat on the couch near the wall, nursing a drink he did not need. His knee bounced. His eyes never stopped moving.
"They blaming us," Torian said, voice thick. "Cartel blaming us."
Andre did not turn around. "Of course they are."
"I swear, boss, I did not know they was going to finish him like that," Torian added quickly. "I thought if he died, it would be outside. Loud. This hospital shit makes it look calculated."
Andre finally turned.
His eyes were calm. Too calm.
"You talk too much when you nervous," Andre said.
Torian swallowed and shut up.
Andre walked to the desk and picked up his phone. He scrolled through photos sent by different people. Candles. Flowers. Messages. All of them circling back to the same conclusion.
He was being written into a story he did not fully control.
That was dangerous.
"Funeral," Andre said suddenly.
The lieutenant by the door straightened. "What."
"We give him a funeral," Andre repeated. "Big. Public. Loud."
Torian looked up. "Boss, cartel might hit that."
Andre nodded. "Good."
The room went quiet.
"You want them to see us," the lieutenant said carefully.
"I want the city to see us," Andre replied. "I want them to see I am not hiding. I want them to see who still moves where."
Torian frowned. "That puts a target on everybody."
Andre stepped closer, his voice low. "Targets already exist. All I am doing is deciding where the lines get drawn."
The lieutenant hesitated. "Southside might try something."
Andre's mouth twitched slightly. "I hope they do."
He walked back to the window.
"Grief makes men reckless," Andre continued. "But funerals make men emotional. Emotional men make mistakes. I want to see who shows their face. Who brings guns. Who watches too close. Who thinks they are brave."
He turned back to them.
"We bury my brother like a king," Andre said. "And whoever thinks that is an opportunity will tell us exactly who they are."
Across the city, Big Head listened to the same information from a different angle.
Jack stood at the desk in the cleaners reading off a message from one of their lookouts. "Andre putting together a big funeral. Public. Procession. Church then burial."
Psycho let out a low whistle. "That man bold."
"He cornered," Murk said quietly. "Cornered animals make noise."
Big Head sat still, hands folded, eyes unfocused. He was already somewhere else.
"Funeral is bait," Jack said. "He wants to see who moves."
"Yes," Big Head agreed. "And the cartel will be watching too."
Rob leaned against the doorframe. "That is a lot of eyes in one place."
Big Head looked up. "Exactly."
Psycho frowned. "You thinking what I thinking."
"I am thinking cleaner," Big Head replied. "Louder things draw attention. Quiet things change the board."
Jack nodded slowly. "Hospital was quiet."
Big Head met his eyes. "And look what it did."
Silence settled in the room.
Then Murk spoke. "We got new blood asking to put in work."
Big Head turned. "Who."
"Four of them," Murk said. "Different blocks. All Southside, but not under us yet. They been waiting for something like this. They want to prove they belong."
Psycho grinned. "Young wolves."
"Hungry," Murk corrected. "And careful. They not loud. Not sloppy. They been watching how we move."
Big Head leaned back slightly. "Names."
Murk listed them one by one.
Keon from the river blocks.
Dre from the flats.
Luis from the apartments near the tracks.
Malik from the edge streets that nobody claimed.
Four blocks. Four stories. Four reasons to hate the Eastside.
"They masked up," Murk continued. "They train together at night. They not flashy. They listen."
Jack folded his arms. "That kind of hunger can be dangerous."
Big Head nodded. "Or useful."
Rob frowned. "You thinking of using them."
Big Head's voice stayed calm. "I am thinking of giving them a choice."
Psycho's eyes lit up. "Funeral."
Big Head did not answer immediately.
He stood and walked to the map on the wall. Andre's territory was marked in red. The church location was already circled.
"That funeral will be crawling with guns," Big Head said. "Andre's. Cartel's. Undercover cops. Real cops pretending they are not real cops."
Jack swallowed. "If anything goes wrong, it will be a bloodbath."
Big Head nodded. "Yes."
Murk's eyes sharpened. "But if it goes right."
Big Head turned back to them. "Then the city will know something changed."
Psycho leaned forward. "We letting the new ones do it."
"We letting them decide if they want to become us," Big Head said. "Or die trying."
Rob shifted. "That is heavy."
"Everything is heavy now," Big Head replied.
Jack rubbed his jaw. "And the hospital girl."
Big Head's eyes flicked up. "She stays quiet."
"She already killed for the cartel," Jack said. "That makes her a loose end."
Big Head shook his head. "She does not belong to us. She belongs to the moment. Leave her alone."
Murk nodded. "Pressure elsewhere."
Big Head pointed at the map again. "Funeral is where Andre thinks the pressure is."
Psycho smiled slowly. "So we hit where he does not."
Big Head finally looked at him. "No."
The room stilled.
"We let the new ones hit where everyone is looking," Big Head continued. "And we move somewhere else entirely."
Jack's eyes widened slightly. "You stacking chaos."
"I am letting Andre drown in it," Big Head replied.
Rob exhaled. "And the recruits."
Big Head's gaze hardened. "They go in masked. No names. No phones. No talking. Clean weapons. Clean exit."
"And the clue," Murk asked.
Big Head nodded. "One small mistake. Something survivable. Something the system can grab later."
Psycho frowned. "You planning jail already."
"I am planning longevity," Big Head corrected. "Prison creates stories. Stories create leverage."
Silence again.
Jack finally spoke. "You really turning us into an organization."
Big Head looked at him. "Andre forced it."
That night, the four recruits stood in a bare room with concrete floors and one hanging bulb. They wore street clothes, hands visible, posture respectful.
Big Head stood in front of them, Murk and Jack flanking him. Psycho leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.
"You know why you here," Big Head said.
Keon nodded. "Funeral."
Big Head studied him. "You know why I picked you."
Malik swallowed. "Because we quiet."
"Because you listen," Big Head corrected. "And because you understand something."
Luis spoke up carefully. "That this not about noise. This about meaning."
Big Head nodded once. "Good."
He stepped closer.
"This is not revenge," Big Head continued. "This is positioning. You go in masked. You move as one. You fire controlled. You leave alive."
Dre frowned. "What if we see Andre."
Big Head's voice dropped. "You do not touch him."
That surprised them.
Psycho pushed off the wall. "You touch who you told. Nobody else."
Murk added, "You do not chase. You do not spray. You do not panic."
Big Head looked each of them in the eyes. "You do this right, you earn a place. You do it wrong, you do not come back."
Keon nodded. "We ready."
Big Head stepped back. "Then listen carefully."
He outlined the route. The timing. The exit. The one deliberate flaw.
A shell left behind.
A camera angle not fully avoided.
A witness who saw masked figures but not faces.
Not enough to solve it. Enough to start a thread.
When he finished, the room was silent.
Psycho broke it. "Y'all understand what this is."
Malik nodded. "A door."
"A one way door," Jack said.
The recruits understood.
Across town, Andre received confirmation the funeral was set. The church agreed. The street would be closed. Police coordination was in place.
Andre stared at the details and smiled faintly.
"Let them come," he said.
He did not know the city had already decided to test him.
And it would not be quiet about it.