Miguel Torres shifts nervously in the driver’s seat of the getaway car, glancing at the engine and the masks on the seat beside him. The engine hums quietly, almost too calm for the storm about to erupt. Beside him, Vince “Red” Marquez leans back, eyes scanning the street with a sharp, calculating glare. “You double-checked your piece?” Red asks, voice low but steady. “I did,” Miguel replies, trying to keep his voice even, though a flicker of adrenaline betrays him. “Everything’s ready. You sure this plan’s solid?” Red smirks faintly. “It’s solid. Quick in, quick out. Don’t freeze, and don’t get greedy. Stick to the plan, and we walk away clean.” From the back seat, Tony “Knuckles” Ramirez shifts, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t screw this up for me, alright?” Miguel swallows hard, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down. He slides his mask over his face and checks the gun in his lap one last time. Outside, the Bank of Stockton waits silently, unaware that in just a few moments, it will become the center of a violent storm. Red glances at Miguel, his tone softening slightly. “Remember, kid, I’ve got your back. You stick with me, we get the cash, we get out. No one has to get hurt—if we do this right.” Miguel nods, gripping the wheel tighter. Streetlights flicker across the hood, casting long shadows over their tense faces. Excitement and fear twist together, and the world narrows to a single point: the doors of the bank.