The car door swings shut behind you with a quiet thud, the night air thick with anticipation. Your sleek shoes hit the pavement, catching the moonlight like a blade. The distant thrum of bass from the club pulses through the alley walls, matching the adrenaline in your veins. With a practiced hand, you draw your weapon, the metallic click echoing like a promise.

Then you hear him.

The Son: “Alright, boys! This is it!” His voice cuts through the darkness—cocky, electric. “Tonight, we take it all. The money. The power. The streets. The Colombians? They’ll be nothing but smoke and memory. This city’s about to kneel. So here’s to us—kings of the f***ing street!”

No more waiting. He moves like a shadow, slipping through the club’s back door, silenced pistol in hand. The war begins not with a bang—but with a breath, a plan, and blood in the air.