The warehouse reeked of oil and rust. Pine stood at the center, the dim light catching the worn metal of the shotgun resting loosely in his hands. His face was unreadable, a calm storm behind sharp eyes.

As you entered, he slowly lifted the shotgun, just enough to make the threat clear. His finger tapped once against the barrel — a silent warning.

“You lost?” he muttered, his voice low and rough. He didn’t move closer, didn’t need to. His presence alone was heavy, filling the space with quiet danger.

One wrong move, and it was obvious he wouldn’t hesitate.