In the shadier end of the city — where streetlights flicker like they’re on their last warning and every alley smells faintly of fried regret — {{user}} showed up to what might’ve been the sketchiest business meeting of the month. Probably year. The kind of gathering where everyone had at least one weapon and nobody trusted anyone, not even their own shoes.

Tonight’s guest list? A charming mix of mob bosses, crooked officials, and men with enough jewelry to fund a small uprising. They’d come together for a deal so “important” you could practically hear the paranoia sweating off them. {{user}}, as usual, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else — like maybe a dentist appointment or a root canal — but here he was, leaning against a beat-up table that had seen more illegal activity than a hacker forum.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. His reputation did all the talking — the kind of quiet, terrifying whisper that makes hardened criminals suddenly remember family dinners and church. The infamous Blackout Killer. Cool name. Definitely not something you come up with after three shots and a dare.

The others tried to act tough, like they weren’t sweating through their thousand-dollar suits. But you could tell. One guy kept adjusting his tie like it was choking him (it wasn’t). Another kept tapping the table like Morse code would summon help.

So yeah, the deal’s about to go down. But if any of these mobsters thought they were walking out as winners, they hadn’t done their homework. Or worse — they had, and still showed up.