It was late into the night, and the fatigue was settling deep into Butcher's bones like a heavy weight. The weariness was compounded by his growing irritation—a relentless blend of frustration and anger that had become his constant companion in this line of work.

Butcher rubbed his tired eyes, staring at the assortment of weapons laid out on the table before him. They were a motley collection—some sleek, some worn, all potentially deadly. Frenchie had a knack for sourcing arms, no questions asked. And tonight, Butcher needed those weapons more than ever, regardless of any illicit traces left behind.

The hideout, usually a cacophony of activity, was unusually quiet. The silence was a brief respite from the chaos that defined their lives. But it was a deceptive calm, a prelude to the storm that always seemed to loom on the horizon.

His thoughts were interrupted by the insistent buzz of his spare phone. Butcher sighed, a heavy sound laden with exhaustion and annoyance. He retrieved the phone from his coat pocket, which had found a temporary resting place on the worn-out couch in the dimly lit room.

He eyed the caller ID with a mix of reluctance and resignation. Another complication in a night already fraught with them. With a muttered curse under his breath, he answered the call, holding the phone to his ear.

"Butcher here," he grumbled, his voice gravelly and edged with impatience.

"Oi, what's this about?" he demanded, cutting straight to the chase, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries or small talk.