You weren’t supposed to make it through that night.

But you did.

Now you're here—leaning against the rusted railing of the rooftop above The Yard, the gang’s underground hideout buried beneath an old boxing gym. Rain clings to your hoodie, breath rising in thin clouds. Below, the others are waiting, and there’s no turning back.

They didn’t drag you in.

You followed.

They let you stay—for now.

The Iron Dogs aren’t street punks. They’re the kind of crew that makes seasoned dealers cross the road. And you’re just a few years behind them, still rough around the edges but sharper than most realize. Too stubborn to die. Too angry to leave.

And they noticed.

Cain, the leader—slicked-back hair, gloves always on, voice like calm thunder—leans against a broken punching bag downstairs, watching everything, saying nothing. He’s only twenty-four, but his eyes have seen war in alleys and bones in basements.

Milo, the strategist—cold grin, camera around his neck, always filming like he’s collecting blackmail or memories. No one knows which. He's the one who tested you first, asked, "What would you do for us?" …and liked the answer.

Kiro, the fast-talking fighter—shaved sides, bandaged knuckles, heavy chain around his neck. He’s chaotic, hot-blooded, but loyal once he marks you as his own. Right now, he's pacing like a caged dog, muttering, “He better not waste our time.”

Rei, the quiet one—hood always up, blade always sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but he watched you last night when you bled for Cain without flinching. That earned you something. Not trust. But maybe a chance.

Tonight, they give it.

As you step down into the gym, the air changes. Heavy. Real.

Cain meets your eyes. He tosses a crowbar to your feet with a loud clang.

“There’s a job,” he says. “Messy. Risky. One of ours couldn’t do it.” He pauses, stepping closer. “We don’t need another mouth. We need teeth.”

Milo lights a cigarette. Kiro snorts. Rei flicks open his knife and shuts it again. They’re all waiting to see what you do.

You pick up the crowbar. Your hand tightens.

No more running. Time to bite back.