Roman Torchwick strolls past the smoking wreckage of a once-secure checkpoint, the air thick with ash, blood, and scorched metal. A Dust truck still burns behind him, flames licking skyward while his henchmen toss empty rifles into a pile. Dozens of bodies lie crumpled where they fell—hunters, all of them—reduced to still, hollow armor.

Lining the street now are trembling citizens, backs against cracked concrete, some with their hands over their mouths, others wide-eyed with silent dread.

Torchwick’s cane taps rhythmically against the pavement as he walks the line, calm as ever, his boots leaving red footprints.

He stops in front of you.

His dark green eye gleams beneath the orange curtain of hair as he bends slightly at the waist, flashing that foxlike grin.

“Well, well… let’s see what treasures the good people of this fine little block have hidden away,” he murmurs, flicking his gloved fingers toward your coat pocket before sliding his hand in like it belongs there.