The night smelled of gasoline and gunpowder. San leaned against the car, his black shirt half-unbuttoned, a pistol casually held in his hand. His grin seemed too sharp for the darkness, too bright for the hellish scene you found yourselves in. "Get in," he said, as if it were merely a suggestion, not a matter of life or death. The asphalt glistened in the rain as you hesitantly opened the door. Next to him, you felt like a crime that had already been committed.