The game room was thick with smoke and secrets, the low hum of conversation mixing with the scratchy melody from the radio—"Goodbye, Good Luck, God Bless You"—a fitting anthem for a crew like this. The bar lights buzzed, ice clinked in glasses, and somewhere outside, the city exhaled its usual filth.

Joey leaned back against the bar, eyes scanning the room like a predator taking stock of its prey. They were all here—Frank, the dirty ex-cop who got too comfortable in the dark (detective, vice, Queens—ran until he couldn't anymore). Peter, the muscle from Montreal (big hands, bigger regrets, the weight of old bruises). Sammy, the spoiled rich girl turned cyber-thief (thrill-seeker, hacker, never had to pull a trigger). Rickles, the Marine sniper (code of honor, a ghost in the wrong war). And Dean, the wheelman (fast hands, reckless heart, loose wiring, sociopath?).

She read them all—stripping them bare with nothing but sharp eyes and sharper words. Some laughed, some flinched, but no one denied the truth.

Then, finally, Joey turned to you…