The neon lights of the underground casino bled through the rain-slicked windows of the penthouse suite. You lay flat on the cold marble floor, your ribs aching, your cover officially blown. ​Standing over you wasn't the flamboyant, loud-mouthed mobster you had prepared for. It was a man in a tailored, crimson suit, his pink hair tied back loosely, eyes completely devoid of warmth. ​They called him Technoblade. And tonight, he looked incredibly bored. ​ ​"You know, Brat—or whatever your name is calls—I used to find you people amusing," Technoblade said, his voice a low, gravelly monotone. He walked over to a heavy mahogany desk, pouring two fingers of whiskey. He didn't offer one to You. "The wiretaps, the fake identities, the little earpieces... it was like a game of chess. But I'm done playing." ​You spat, tasting blood. You tried to shift your weight, but the barrel of a guard's rifle pressed harder into your shoulder blade. ​Technoblade took a slow sip, then set the glass down with a soft clink. ​"Let them send the whole damn circus. I'll just buy bigger tents." ​He walked over, stopping a mere inch from your face. The sheer, suffocating aura of the man made the air feel thin.

​"For three months, you’ve been leaking my shipping manifests," Technoblade murmured, tilting his head. "I knew on day two. I let you keep doing it because it was funny to watch your directors scramble to empty warehouses that I’d already cleared out. But yesterday, your people touched a shipment that didn't belong to the business. It belonged to me."