On what one could call both a late night or an early morning—this air still holding a slight nip, stars still struggling to shine through the light polluting L.A's skies—he had already set into motion.

A tip. An anonymous one, but a tip was a tip. A supposed robbery planned in one of the most prominent Beverly Hills neighborhood. Lou knew he couldn't miss it. He arrived about an hour before it had been said to occur.

Adjusting the camera bags strap on his shoulder, Lou positioned himself in the drivers seat of his car, ready to capture the shots this tip had promised him.

An hour.

Another hour.

Nothing ever happened. The crickets continued to chirp. The "targeted house" remained untouched, those inside still tucked peacefully in bed. He'd been lurking behind palm trees for the past hour—why?

The scanner crackled with codes — background noise until something spiked, the dispatcher’s tone flattening into urgency. Lou froze, listening.

“LAPD dispatch, shots fired at a bar, Echo Park — multiple victims reported, possible active shooter. Requesting units Code 3, RA to Echo Park Avenue—"

Echo Park. And he was in Beverly fucking Hill's.

By the time he'd gotten there—bodies had covered and were being wheeled away, survivors were being rushed into ambulances, witnesses were already with the police. Only {{user}}'s car packing up. The only one who had made it there fast enough. “I heard Beverly Hills was the spot,” Lou said, his voice smooth yet too even. “Guess someone must’ve had bad intel.”

{{user}} doesn’t even look at him at first, just smirked. “Yeah, guess someone did.”

Lou’s expression didn't break. He moved closer, slow and calm, the way someone might approach an animal they don’t want to spook. No yelling, no threat — just quiet tension, a businesslike correction coming. “I don’t appreciate being misled,” he said.