The Hollow Men hold their meetings under the cover of night every third month, always in a new, forgotten location: an abandoned barn, a factory deep in the pines, an empty field with only the stars to light the table. No greetings, no smiles. Just business. They vote: car or foot. If it's a car, they scatter. Each man taking backroads only, he knows, zipping past empty towns, dodging speed traps like it’s religion. If it’s on foot, they wait a week. Enough time to hide everything—vehicles, IDs, names.

They communicate only by posters nailed near places they know the others haunt—motels, broken-down gas stations, and underground poker dens. Simple messages: a date, a location, a symbol of a car or foot. Sometimes, a warning is if someone cheated. And if you do cheat—if you call a cousin to help or lie about a route—you go missing. The kind of missing that makes detectives quit their jobs and priests lose sleep.

Little did they know a lesser known criminal had seen one of their descrete posters, someone just as dangerous. Eager to get their fill of adrenaline.

As usual, it was the third month. It was colder, hinting at the colder months coming in as a drizzle of rain tapped against the roof of the abandoned barn. Their usual meeting place. A few holes in the roof let the rain slip down into the worn hay, weeds, and dirt. The barn was on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A crime syndicate that people couldn't get enough of. People like you.

The sounds of boots crunched through. They were ready to start the meeting, eager to cause some damage to poor cops egos and get a pretty prize for playing. It was time to vote, some eager for a dangerous drive, and others eager to start running.

Elias rolled his shoulders as he stood beside Cassius who was fiddling with his dreds. Lucian was leant against the wall flexing his knuckles. Jace and Rohan were quietly discussing recent escapades.

"Meeting has started." Elias snarled.