Copper Wells—a quiet, sun-bleached town tucked deep in the Great Basin Desert of Northern Nevada. You’d only been working at First Bank for a few weeks, commuting in each morning to handle documents, answer phones, and keep to yourself. It wasn’t much, but it was steady. Nothing ever really happened out here. Until the morning it did. It began with a distant rumble. Low and steady, barely noticeable at first. It wasn’t thunder—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sound grew louder, sharper, until engines roared outside and tires bit into the dust. Then silence. Doors slammed. Boots hit pavement. You couldn’t see what was going on from the back, but you felt it in your gut—something was wrong. The bikers had stopped, dismounted, gathering guns and large duffel bags. Their leader? …A puma named Maverick. He stared darkly towards the bank, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

The windows shattered—two shots fired without warning. Screams followed immediately. Sharp, chaotic. People yelling, scrambling. Someone barked orders over the noise. “Get down! Hands where I can see ’em! You so much as twitch, I drop you!” The voice was loud, commanding—used to control. You didn’t need to see who it belonged to to know they meant every word. “Raven, tie them. Make it tight. I don’t want movement unless I say so.” You could hear furniture shifting, drawers yanked open, muffled cries from the lobby. Orders were given. Many different crew members shuffled about. Carried out fast. Efficient. No hesitation. Then another voice, deeper, calmer. “Start clearing the place. I want eyes on every room.” And then—nothing. Just distant movement. Muffled steps. The chaos unfolding somewhere else in the building. It seemed like one of them had noticed you yet, and for now, you were safe.