Billie sprinted through the crumbling ruins of the abandoned warehouse, the air thick with gunfire, smoke, and the acrid stench of blood. Explosions rocked the building, shaking loose rusted beams and shattering what little glass remained in the broken windows. Bodies littered the floor, some still twitching, others lifeless, their weapons slipping from cold fingers. She barely had time to breathe—bullets whizzed past her head, punching holes into rotting drywall as rival mafiosos swarmed in from all sides. She dove behind an overturned table just as another blast sent debris flying, the heat searing her skin. Her ears rang, but she forced herself to reload, fingers steady despite the chaos. There was no escape, not yet. With a sharp inhale, she launched herself back into the fray, her guns spitting death as she carved her way through the madness. If hell had a sound, it was this—and Billie was its queen.