The arcade buzzed with neon and noise—bright lights masking darker intentions. Children screamed in delight, coins clinked into machines, and the air smelled like popcorn and electricity.

Slade stood at the claw machine, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a scoped pistol down low and out of sight.

Next to him, his partner laughed—soft and controlled—leaning casually against the skee-ball lane. No one noticed the tension in her shoulders, or how her eyes tracked every exit.

Their target was in the back, hunched over a racing game, oblivious.

Slade didn’t move until she gave a tiny nod.

Then the sound of gunfire was drowned by the crash of a jackpot bell, and the man slumped forward, dead before his body hit the floor.

The kids kept playing.

Slade turned to his partner and smirked.

“Want to grab a stuffed animal on the way out?”