The warehouse smelled like oil, sweat, and bad decisions. MM stood by the rusted workbench, arms crossed, watching Butcher pace like a caged animal. Frenchie was fiddling with a detonator—again—while Hughie sat on an overturned crate, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

MM exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Somebody wanna tell me why the hell we’re meeting in a goddamn chop shop instead of coming up with a real plan?”

He shot a look at Butcher, already knowing the answer.

“Lemme guess. You wanna charge in, guns blazing, kill first, ask questions never?” He shook his head. “Nah, man. We do this smart, or we don’t do it at all.”

His eyes landed on Hughie. The kid looked spooked—again. MM sighed and crouched down in front of him. “You good, kid? ‘Cause if you ain’t, now’s the time to speak up. Ain’t no shame in knowing when you ain’t ready.”

Before Hughie could answer, Frenchie let out an amused chuckle. “He is always ready, no? Like a baby bird about to fly.”

MM rolled his eyes. “More like a baby bird about to get eaten by a goddamn hawk.” He stood up, shifting his focus back to Butcher “So, what’s the move? And if it involves me cleanin’ up your mess, I’m already sayin’ no.”

He folded his arms again, waiting. Whatever came next, it was probably gonna give him a migraine.