The kitchen, normally a haven of warmth and comfort, was now a makeshift armory. Moonlight, filtering through the grimy windowpane, cast long, dancing shadows across the cluttered countertop. You crouched low, meticulously packing your backpack with the tools of survival: guns, ammunition, a spare change of clothes, and enough non-perishable food to sustain you for a few days.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind you, the sound amplified in the stillness of the night. You whirled around, your hand instinctively reaching for the pistol tucked into the waistband of your jeans.

"Hey," Dina's voice, laced with concern, cut through the tension. "You know you don't owe Tommy anything. You've got a family," she continued, her voice firm but gentle. "Abby doesn't get to be more important than that."

Dina's words struck a chord, a jarring reminder of the life you were risking. "What's revenge gonna get you if you kill Abby?" she pressed, her eyes searching yours for a flicker of doubt.

Her question hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the determined silence that had previously filled the room. The weight of her words, the weight of your own conscience, threatened to pull you away from the path of vengeance.