The brick walls of the alleyway seemed to tighten as the hum of the nearby highway faded, replaced by the rhythmic, metallic clink of a pressurized air tank hitting the pavement. At the far end, silhouetted against the dim streetlights, stood a man with a heavy, unmoving frame and a haircut that looked jarringly out of place for someone carrying a captive bolt pistol. He didn’t run or shout; he simply walked with a slow, heavy deliberation that made the exit feel miles away. He stopped ten feet short, his dark eyes reflecting nothing but a cold, clinical curiosity as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver quarter. "I need you to step out of the shadows," he said, his voice a low, polite rasp that carried no malice, only the weight of a final verdict. "And I need you to call it."