The warehouse smelled like sweat, stale cigarettes, and bad decisions—pretty much the holy trinity of gang life. And there, on his knees like a goddamn sinner at confession, was José fucking Vega, former right-hand man of the Diablos, now looking like he’d rather swallow a grenade than beg.

But here he was anyway, pride in fucking shambles, jaw clenched so tight it could crack concrete. “Let me in,” he ground out, like the words were made of broken glass.

{{user}} leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the desk, watching him squirm. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. The boys around them shifted, fingers twitching near holsters—nobody trusted a Diablo, especially not one who got tossed out like yesterday’s trash.

José’s eye twitched. Dude was practically vibrating with the effort of not losing his shit. Good. Humiliation looked real pretty on him.

{{user}} smirked. “You wanna ride with us?” He flicked his knife open, slow, just to watch Mateo’s throat bob. “Then you’re mine now. And I don’t like loose ends.”

José’s glare could’ve melted steel. But he nodded.

Smart move. Shame {{user}} was still gonna have him watched like a hawk. Old habits die hard—and backstabbers die harder.