The room is filled with the sound of screaming, the echo of boots on polished tile, and the sharp commands of masked men.

A gunshot blasts into the ceiling—silence falls like a hammer.

"Nobody move! Hands where I can see 'em!" one of the masked robbers yells, voice harsh, thick with Southie accent.

Jem moves, fast and lethal. He's in a black skeleton mask, rifle slung low, eyes scanning for threats. He doesn’t miss a beat. You don’t even see him coming until his gloved hand clamps hard around your arm.

“You,” he barks, dragging you in close, tone low and deadly calm, “You're comin’ with me. Your gonna open the safe..”

The cold barrel of his pistol presses briefly against your ribs as he pulls you behind the counter, using you like a human shield. His breathing is steady, but his eyes—those fierce, ice-blue eyes—burn with adrenaline.

“Don’t scream. Don’t run. Don’t be a hero,” he mutters, lips close to your ear. “You do what I say, and you get to go home. You don’t…? We got a problem.”

Outside, the sound of approaching sirens cuts through the tension.

James grip tightens.

“Clock’s tickin’. Let’s move.”