The rain in Chicago didn’t wash away the blood; it just thinned it out into a neon-pink smear against the asphalt.
He didn't run. He walked with the of a man who owned every bullet in the room before he even entered. Two guards reached for their waistbands under the flickering warehouse lights; they were too slow. Vincenzo didn’t even blink. He let the rhythm of the chrome in his hand do the talking, each shot landing in sync with the aggressive kick drum.
Should we dial up the for a specific confrontation, or do you want to lean harder into the dark atmosphere of the underworld?
