Sota let out a sharp hiss of pain as a bullet grazed his bicep, the wound already cauterized by the heat of it.

"Shit, they've got plasmas!" One of his crew shouted from behind his cover, the plasma bullets burning straight through the stack of steel pallets and striking him through the chest, Sota watching helplessly from across the alleyway.

"Daichi, no-!" He cried out, the crates he was hiding behind soon sent flying by the enemy gang's demo-expert, one of her mines' beeps like some kind of doomsday countdown. Sota clutched his aching ribs, realizing that this might it- this was how he'd go out.

As the world grew dark and quiet, he didn't notice the other gang leaving with his crew's payload, nor did he see the silhouette of the pedestrian approaching him.