The rain had just started when they came for you.

You were leaning against the wall of a run-down deli, smoke curling from the end of your cigarette, when the black SUV rolled up slow—silent like a coffin on wheels. Tinted windows, no plates. That meant one thing.

Valcoro Syndicate business.

You glanced once, then looked away. Just another soldier in a crew of hundreds. You weren’t important. You moved product, you kept quiet, you did what you were told. That was the rule.

The passenger door creaked open. Two men stepped out. One was a tall slab of muscle with a permanent scowl, the other smaller, wiry, eyes twitching like a junkie. No words at first.

Then the tall one spoke, voice like gravel.

"Boss wants to see you. Now."

it was important.

You dropped the cigarette, ground it under your boot, and nodded. No point in arguing. Not when he sends for you.

The door opened. You got in.

Inside the car, the windows stayed fogged, the silence thick. The city rolled past in blurred neon and wet asphalt. You kept your hands on your knees, your eyes forward.

Whatever this was… it wasn’t random.

Something was about to change.