April 22, 2021. 21:23. Richmond. 8 days left till Italy.
The night air in Richmond tastes like iron and static.
Since our trip to the clinic, the streets became significantly more quiet, but not fully empty. Clouds form above us, with light pollution tinting everything in a soft and orange haze.
Mister's already a step ahead, phone to his helmet, murmuring to one of his contacts. The rest of us are just wandering for now, waiting for him to finish the call.
I trail close behind, but keep my eyes on corners and rooftops—watching every movement and flicker. I don't like this area. There's too many exits and blind spots.
Tetra and Remi follow a little slower, footsteps crunching on broken pavement. No one's talking yet. We're all still simmering from what went down.
Finally, Tetra glances sideways. "Uh, so… you wanna talk about what happened earlier?"
"Not gonna lie, not really. But… whatever." Remi's shoulders rise, then fall with a long sigh. "My bad for making the meeting heated."
He shoves his hands in his pockets, gazing somewhere far ahead.
"I just can't stand that kind of shit, y'know? People seeing kids getting wrecked and actin' like it's just another Tuesday. Like it ain't their fuckin' problem." He kicks a loose can off the sidewalk, and it clatters into a nearby gutter.
Tetra stays quiet, processing everything Remi said.
After a brief moment, he asks, "So…What's the difference, then? Between kids and adults, I mean. Aren't they both stuck in the same 'system'? Not disagreeing with you or anything, I'm just curious on how you see it."
Remi doesn't answer right away. His jaw shifts slightly, working through the thought. "We've had time to get used to it—all that fucked up shit. Take me for example, what I do ain't right, let's be real. I just know how to numb it out. Kids, though?" He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. "They're still figuring out what the world's even supposed to be. And when the first thing they learn is pain? When no one's there with 'em? That shit sticks… and I speak out of experience."
There's another pause. Damn…
I drift a little closer, and catch myself wondering how I actually feel about Remi. Loud, a bit cocky—sure. But maybe there's more to him than I gave credit for. Enough to make me curious.
"What do you mean? If you don't mind explaining."
Tetra perks up slightly too, curious. "Yeah. I'm curious too—don't wanna pry, though."
Remi exhales—not annoyed, more reflective. "Nah, it's alright. You asked respectfully." He rubs the back of his neck and glances down the street. "I grew up in Surrey. Not the apartments, the backwater suburban area, near White Rock. Dad dipped before I could even remember his face. Mom was chasing her next high—meth, heroin, whatever kept her gone."
He pauses, jaw tight. "There were nights I'd be left alone in drawers or laundry baskets. Sometimes she wouldn't come back till morning… if she came back at all. Eventually one of her 'friends' started babysitting while she was out stripping for more eddies." He swallows. Eyes darken. "Let's just say he took more than my trust."
Tetra and I don't say anything.
Remi runs a hand over his mouth. "I eventually got the balls to tell her. And you know what she did? All she said was 'sorry', and then she bought me a fucking iPod—like that fixed anything. But... it played music." He gives a small, bitter laugh. "Probably saved my life, honestly. I'd lock myself in my room and just disappear into anything that didn't sound like my real life. Fall Out Boy, Linkin Park... whatever I could find. Eventually taught myself guitar with a cracked vidscreen tutorial and some busted strings. Just to drown it all out."
He sighs, eyes drifting to the sky. "So yeah. Look at me—look how fucked up I turned out. You really want more kids ending up like this?" His voice tightens. "That's why I can't stand seeing them dragged into this shit. They didn't ask for it. They're not ready. And it ruins them."
I look at him, eyes softening. "...Thanks for sharing that."
Remi shrugs. "Didn't think anyone was listening."
"Of course I was." My voice comes out quieter than before. "And… I get it. Not in the same way, but..." I pause, carefully choosing my words. "Having the right people around—it makes all the difference."
Tetra's still silent, eyes gone distant.
"You alright?" Remi nudges him gently.
Tetra blinks, like he's just now returning to the moment. "Yeah. Just thinking. My family wasn't like that. We're loud and weird—but we're close. We always had each other's backs. Not trying to brag or anything. I'm just… grateful, I guess."
"As you should be." Remi nods. "If they're still around, treat 'em like gold."
Tetra stays quiet, taking it in.
Remi sighs, scratching the back of his head. "Oh, and don't even get me started on the damn suits. Cold, corporate, cock-glazing bastards. A few are decent, sure. But most? They fake empathy like it's currency. Like giving a damn makes you weak."
He looks worn out.
Before I can say anything, Mister ends the call and slips back into step with us.
"I got something," he says. "My contact spotted Benny near one of the old shipment hubs earlier today."
Tetra raises a brow. "Is he still there?"
Mister shakes his head. "I doubt it. Apparently, he's on the move constantly, and he never stays in one place for more than a few hours. We probably won't catch him, but we might catch his trail."
Remi gives a small nod. "Aight. Lead the way."
It doesn't take long for us to get there.
We walk the whole way. Tetra and Remi spend most of it talking about food—dishes they miss, weird stuff they want to try—while Mister stays glued to his phone. I hang back a little, keeping watch on the streets around us.
The scenery eventually shifts as we move out of central Richmond. The buildings thin out, giving way to open flats cluttered with shipping containers, stacked in every direction like bricks.
I wrinkle my nose. This part of Richmond always reeks. Burnt plastic and diesel fumes cling to the air. Rusted steel towers lean in crooked rows along the edges of my vision, tagged with graffiti, crude insults, and old trade signs, all half-eaten by mold and salt.
We reach a narrow street that winds deeper towards the docks. Mister slows, raising a hand to halt us. He scans the area, searching for something. I follow the direction of his helmet—nothing but an empty street.
Then I hear soft footsteps and turn just in time to see Michelangelo appear right next to me.
I flinch hard, heart jumping into my throat. "WHAT THE FU—"
Tetra spins around. "What's wrong—" He stops mid-sentence, eyes locking on Michelangelo. "The hell? When did you get here? I didn't even hear you."
Michelangelo dips his head politely. "Apologies for startling you, Artemis. My stealth implants were on."
"Yeah, no kidding," I mutter, still trying to slow my heartbeat. "Next time, maybe warn us first."
Behind me, Remi snickers. Of course. And just when I was starting to warm up to him.
I roll my eyes and flip him off. "Let's see how you handle a jumpscare, jackass." Still… it's nice to hear him laugh again.
Mister cuts through it with a sharp shake of his head, tone back to business. "Michelangelo, did you see anything on your end?"
"I did. This area seems to be popular with the Melders," Michelangelo nods. "There's a few cars, mostly older models. Two lookouts—unarmed, but definitely watching. One gang convoy showed up about ten minutes ago. Six Melders, laughing and drinking. No visible weapons."
"Any sign of Benny?" Mister asks.
Michelangelo shakes his head. "I didn't confirm a sighting. The name came up once in their conversation, but no details. I wasn't given a last name or physical description—what does he look like?"
Remi grunts, deadpan staring at Michelangelo. "He's slimy, and thinks he's smooth. Picture a young white dude with a baby face who thinks wearing a leather jacket makes him look hard." He walks over and shows Michelangelo a photo on his phone. "Here. This is him. Usually wears designer boots like he's in some low-rent mafia flick."
"I've heard he flashes a lot of synthetic jewelry too," Mister adds. "Not chrome—just cheap and shiny stuff. He likes being noticed."
Tetra raises an eyebrow. "So… he's a poser?"
"Maybe," Remi shrugs. "Chooms who flex that hard usually don't have real drip. Either that, or they're just trying too hard to cover something up—probably insecurity."
Michelangelo scans the area. "It's unlikely that he's nearby, I never saw anyone matching that profile."
"Shit. Is there still a point in searching the area then?" I ask, eyes sweeping the shadowy gaps between the cargo container stacks. "Maybe we could try finding traces of Benny?"
"We'd waste too much time covering an area this large," Mister says, pulling out his phone with a sigh. "It's better to find someone who knows more. One moment."
He steps away to make another call.
The rest of us stay back, waiting by a rusted hauler cab. Tetra leans against the side, arms crossed, eyes scanning the area with quiet impatience. Remi fidgets with his phone, then starts mindlessly scrolling through his feed. Michelangelo paces the street, keeping an eye on the alleyways and nearby intersections.
I'm tempted to join him—until I catch a garbled voice from Mister's call. A girl's voice, filtered through layers of digital static.
"...his name's Blockhead... mid-tier... sells out nearby the docks. Has stash routes to Burnaby too."
Mister nods, says nothing, then turns to us.
"We got a name. Blockhead. He's a seller. My contact says he's local—and should be nearby."
"Blockhead, huh," Remi repeats, clearly unimpressed. "Bet he's built like a fridge."
Tetra frowns and tilts his head. "Why do you think he's built like a fridge?"
"It's in the name, man." Remi smirks. "Guys with nicknames like 'Blockhead'—they're either tryna overcompensate or they got bullied into owning it. Think about it. Either he's huge and someone made fun of it, or he's small and trying to sound scary."
Tetra gives him a sidelong glance. "That... makes sense."
Remi shrugs, casually. "It's just pattern recognition, choom. Same thing I do with tracks—sometimes you catch the rhythm before the beat even drops. You just know when a song's gonna fall into the same four bars."
Tetra lets out a short laugh. "Spoken like a real musician."
Remi smirks. "Damn right."
I scan the perimeter again and gesture forward. "Either of you think you can get ahold of Blockhead, then?"
"I can," Mister says, already pulling out his phone. "Just let me finish this call."
He steps away, lifting the phone to his ear again. That same modulated voice returns—soft, fragmented by static.
"...As I was saying… he sells nearby. Hangs around the back of an old parking lot near the containers. You're close. I'll send a pin."
Mister doesn't respond right away. But I catch a subtle shift—his hand tightening around the phone, his posture tensing the longer he listens.
The girl says something else—low, unreadable—but the tone tugs at something in my memory.
I narrow my eyes.
That voice… I've heard it before. Is that… his 'wannabe'?
Before I can be sure, Mister ends the call.
"Anything else?" I ask quickly.
He shakes his head. "Nothing important." Then, without missing a beat, he dials another number
This time, there's no static. Just one ring—then a voice crackles through, low and slightly cocky.
"Who the hell is this?"
"Is this Blockhead?" Mister asks flatly. "We have a mutual friend. And I'm looking to buy. Are you holding?"
"Depends who's askin'."
"I'm not here to waste time. I've got the money and the connection. You've got SynthCoke. Do you want the deal or not?"
"...East dock. You know where that is, right? I'll flash lights when I see you. Hurry up, and don't bring heat. We're gone after midnight."
"I'll see you soon."
The call ends. Mister pockets his phone and turns back to us.
"He's in. He's already set up at the far end of the yard—near the containers, east dock. He'll flash his lights when he sees us."
Tetra glances between us, brow furrowed. "So… are we actually buying it?"
"We're pretending," Mister corrects. "We show up, he confirms ID, and then we move. Expect a quick fight."
"Ohh." Tetra nods, the confusion slipping from his face.
Remi cracks his knuckles. "Sounds like my kind of evening."
Michelangelo tilts his head. "What is the purpose of pursuing Benny further? You spoke of controlling the operation earlier, but the value seems negligible. If we obtain a SynthCoke sample from Blockhead, Arasaka can conduct its analysis. Benny's role becomes redundant."
Mister meets his gaze without flinching. "We could. But, why stop at a sample when we could control the whole operation? There'll be plenty of leads and leverage to gain."
Michelangelo's jaw tightens. "You want to own it. That is beyond the scope of our mission."
"I want to bargain," Mister says evenly. "Arasaka doesn't care who delivers results—just that someone does. Let me run the floor here. A sample gives Arasaka data; having a hand in the operation gives them influence. You'll get your report—and a cleaner asset in the end."
There's a moment of silence before I cut in. "Why do you want it so bad?" Is this guy playing five-dimensional chess or something? Does he want to be on good terms with Arasaka? What does he want?
Tetra folds his arms. "Yeah, since when did we start fighting over drug empires?"
Mister glances between us, calm but deliberately vague. "Because information flows with the product. Control the supply, and you control the story."
Remi chuckles low under his breath. "Aight, we're getting nowhere. Just let him cook. He's gonna do something crazy, I bet."
Michelangelo adjusts his katana straps and exhales through his nose. "Fair enough. Do you want me to circle around back while you talk to Blockhead?"
Mister nods. "Yes, stay hidden unless things go south—stick to scouting for now. The rest of us move in together, and I'll handle the talking. Artemis, be ready to flank as soon as diplomacy fails. Tetra, Remi—stay sharp. Don't engage until Artemis does."
I tighten the strap of my gear. "Yeah, got it."
"Ideally, no one shoots—unless they do it first," Mister reminds us. "But if push comes to shove, then we'll do what we can. Let's try to keep this as quiet as possible."
Remi cracks his knuckles. "Bet, say less."
Tetra exhales slowly, checking his sidearm. "Alright…"
Time to move.
I nod and peel away from the rest of the team, slipping ahead without a sound.
Richmond's layout plays to my strengths—especially at night. Tight corridors, stacked cargo, layered shadows? My favorite. I stay low, hugging fence lines and slipping through dark alleys. Each container becomes cover; every alley becomes a sightline I either cut or control.
It takes a bit of time, but the group eventually makes it to the location.
It's quiet—no noise, no traffic.
Perfect spot for a drug deal, I suppose.
I pause, searching for Michelangelo out of curiosity, but give up after a minute. He's probably leaping between rooftops and containers. I continue maneuvering through the alleys and cargo stacks until I find a vantage point overlooking the area and my team.
Nice, they're still advancing down the street.
As far as I know, I'm the only one fully geared up. But, I'm not entirely sure about the others. Mister and Tetra probably have sidearms, but I can't say for certain what Remi's packing besides his knife and pistol. There's no sign of his rifle. Which makes me think it might just be me and Michelangelo carrying the real firepower.
The docks are unsettlingly quiet, and it brings back a flicker of nostalgia. Reminds me of the first time we saw Jenny. Luckily for us, that was at a different set of docks, somewhere between Richmond and Vancouver. The ones we're at now are farther into Richmond—somehow even darker and a whole lot quieter.
In the distance, Blockhead's ride is already parked at the end of the dock.
A matte green Land Cruiser—an old Toyota Land Cruiser, jacked up and armored like it's expecting war. Exposed steel bars wrap around the frame, and the underglow flickers a violent red. Across the hood is a massive decal of a melting brain with inky black wiring and streaks of distorted white. A subwoofer booms low from inside the cabin, the kind of bass that vibrates through your lungs instead of your ears.
The guy's not alone.
Three others hang around the SUV.
One leans against the hood, scrolling on his phone and mumbling to himself, with twitchy fingers tapping non-stop. Another stands still—tall and silent, wearing a slick coat and mirrored cyber-optics fused into the sockets, wiring threading into blistered skin. His chrome-plated jaw twitches out of sync, and his torso bears patches of poorly welded metal plating that hum with static. And then there's the driver, still behind the wheel, brake lights blinking while a grotesque neural jack pulses at the base of his neck—raw flesh fused with oily black tubing that throbs every time he shifts in his seat.
Blockhead's leaning against the trunk with his arms crossed, front and center. Built like his name implies—square jaw, hulking frame, bleach-blonde buzzcut, and a cartoon-thick gold chain. There's a black ink tattoo that runs from just under his ear, slithering down to his collarbone like barbed wire. His synthetic eyes flash with flickering animations.
Dollar signs, of course. I guess Remi was right.
I change positions, and circle around to get a clear angle on both my team and Blockhead's. I slow my movements deliberately, careful not to make a sound. Luckily, the crashing water masks me, and I slip past—unnoticed—until I'm behind Blockhead's crew.
By the time my team arrives, I'm in place.
Mister steps towards the Melders first, hands loose at his sides. "My name is Mister. This is Remi, and the other one is Tetra. We're here for the SynthCoke."
Blockhead doesn't move, arms still folded over his chest. He eyes them, then flicks his chin towards the Melders. "You brought backup," he says, flatly. "Could've mentioned that over the phone."
One of the Melders squints at Mister. "What's with the bike helmet, man? Scared you're gonna get exposed or something?"
Mister doesn't flinch. "Exactly. I'd rather not be."
Blockhead smirks slightly. "Fair enough."
A few of the Melders break into low laughter, but it shifts focus fast—one of them points at Remi, elbowing his buddy. "Hey... ain't that the Dead King's sloppy seconds?"
Another snorts. "Yeah, AXIS gets zeroed and they hire this guy right after. Real upgrade."
Remi's jaw tightens for half a second, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he eyes their grotesque chrome-plated jaws and flickering oculars, and then grins. "Shit, choom, and here I thought the SynthCoke was the ugliest thing I'd see tonight. Guess I was wrong."
The chuckles fizzle into scowls.
Tetra clears his throat and offers a tight smile, rocking slightly on his heels. "Nice… car decal. Do you guys all have the same design, or what?"
Remi gives Tetra a half-shrug. "Everyone's tryna out aura farm each other, I'm telling ya, man."
Tetra frowns, confused. "Wait, what the hell does 'aura farm' even me—"
Mister cuts in before Tetra can finish, his voice cool and steady. "We're here to make a purchase, but I have a few questions first. Just want to make sure we're getting the real thing."
Blockhead narrows his eyes. "What kinda questions?"
"Quality control." Mister steps forward slightly. "We've heard about SynthCoke before—mostly rumours. Some of it sounds… exaggerated. Burns through implants, fries your nerves, causes hallucinations. Is that true?"
Blockhead leans back, arms folded across his chest, exuding fake confidence. "Shit's clean. No burnouts or bugs. You get a high without the crash. Ain't gonna fry your head unless you're already cracked."
Mister tilts his head, nonchalant. "So it's safe. Even with implants?"
Blockhead scoffs. "Yeah. Long as you ain't rocking some knockoff street junk from the 2000s, you'll be fine. We test our batches."
That's a fucking lie.
"Right." Mister nods. "And by 'we,' you mean…?"
"Doesn't matter who," Blockhead deflects, a little too quickly. "Point is, it's solid. Best thing you'll take in the city. And I don't say that lightly."
"Then you must have a solid supplier. Someone with serious reach and consistent product."
"I move what I'm told. You want names? You're gonna have to dig through a lotta dead ends."
"I'm not looking for a directory. I just want to meet someone. Benny. Flashy, loud, likes to show off. Thought he might be part of the same circle."
Blockhead's eyes flick—too fast—and for half a second his mouth opens like he might say something, but clamps shut.
Silence stretches between them.
Then, his voice goes cold. "I don't know him."
Mister doesn't react. "Interesting. Seems like everyone else in Richmond does."
Blockhead scowls. "You fucking buying or fishing, helmet boy?"
"Call it curiosity," Mister says. "I have buyers up north asking questions. I provide them answers, and then I'll come back with more cash for you. Win-win for everyone."
Blockhead steps forward, voice sharpening. "I said I don't know him."
"You sure?" Mister offers, still friendly. "I could make tonight real profitable. One lead. That's all."
"I said no." Blockhead glares, unmoving. "Money don't mean shit if I get flatlined for talking."
"Everyone's got a price."
"Not for that. That's Melder business. You want dope, I sell dope. You want answers, try your luck with the corpse of the last guy who asked."
Mister sighs, like he's genuinely disappointed. "That's unfortunate."
Blockhead raises a brow. "You done?"
"Almost."
Then, without warning, Mister's leg snaps out, driving into Blockhead's chest—slamming him backward. His body crashes hard against the curb, knocking the wind out of him.
I'll take that as my cue.
I burst from the alley, boots slamming against concrete as I sprint full force at the nearest thug—the twitcher still fumbling with his phone. He barely registers movement before I drop-kick him square in the chest, sending him flying into the side of the SUV.
Before the body even hits metal, I'm already twisting. The mirrored-optics brute spins my way, but I'm already pivoting. I whip out a taser and jab into his side—metal meeting flesh with a crackle of current. He seizes up, jaw locked mid-snarl, before crumpling in a twitching heap.
Behind me, Remi slams into the driver's side with a crack of his elbow, and Tetra joins him.
Blockhead's scrambling up now, coughing, reaching for something under his hoodie.
Bad move.
I dive forward, tackling him to the ground before he can draw it.
"Stay down." I hiss, driving a knee into his gut.
He wheezes, eyes wide.
Mister's already circling around, gun drawn but lowered. "Now I'm done. So, ready to talk? And this time, no business bullshit."
Blockhead wheezes beneath me, his body twitching as he tries to suck in air. His square jaw is clenched tight, blood trickling from a split lip where his head clipped the curb. His bravado's gone—those synthetic eyes still flicker, but the dollar signs have scrambled into fractured, unreadable symbols.
Mister crouches beside him, calm and surgical. "Let's try again. Who is Benny?"
Blockhead hesitates—but then my taser gently taps against his neck. His throat bobs.
"He's the guy," Blockhead coughs. "Big boss for the SynthCoke runs. He's the one making it happen."
Mister tilts his head. "Making it happen… how?"
"He coordinates it, and is the pipeline. Melders needed someone to manage the new push—distribution, control, deals. Benny's the one they handed it to."
"And the Wraiths?"
"They help cook it. Their labs, our muscle. Melders fund it, Benny runs it, Wraiths process and refine it."
"And delivery? How's it moved?"
"Runners. Bikes, trucks. Most of it slips through with junk shipments or freelance couriers who don't ask questions. They mask it. Sometimes they hide it in junk cyberware. Cops don't care enough to check."
I glance at Mister. He's still poised, calm—but I know that look. He's almost satisfied.
"Where's Benny now?" Mister asks.
Blockhead hesitates again.
I dig my knee in a little deeper.
"He's—he's based near Ironwood Plaza," Blockhead wheezes. "It's this abandoned mall in Richmond. Melders moved in, made it theirs. Half of it's gutted, but they rebuilt the back end. Offices, storerooms, reinforced doors. He's got a setup there."
"Schedule?" Mister asks.
"Hard to pin," Blockhead replies, trembling slightly now. "He's always moving—Richmond, Surrey, sometimes Burnaby. Checks up on dealers. But he usually goes back to Ironwood at night. That's where he crashes. Sometimes he throws parties. Brings in people to negotiate or girls to... you know."
"Security?"
"Plenty. At least two or three strapped up goons with him—minimum. But the plaza's got more. Drones, cameras, some crazy chromed-out guards. They only let in people on the list. Or people Benny wants."
Mister finally stands. "I see."
Blockhead groans and rolls over slightly. "That's all I know, I swear."
Mister stares down at him for a moment. "If I hear even a whisper that you've mentioned this to anyone—Melders, Wraiths, cops, your dog—I'll make sure your new nickname is 'corpse.'"
Blockhead gulps and nods. "You won't. I promise."
"Good."
Without hesitation, Mister pistol-whips him in the side of the head, and Blockhead crumples to the ground.
I push off Blockhead's body and stretch the tension from my shoulders. Remi dusts himself off near the SUV, while Tetra's making sure the driver's unconscious and still breathing. All clear.
From the shadows, Michelangelo finally emerges. He gives a small nod, confirming he saw everything.
"Nice timing." I mutter.
He blinks. "There was no need to interfere."
Mister holsters his sidearm and gestures for us to regroup. "Let's get this cleaned up."
We tie up the remaining thugs—zip cuffs and duct tape. A little paranoia just in case. The bruised and broken Melders are dumped in a locked shipping crate.
It won't hold them forever, but it's good enough.
Back near the dock's edge, the team stands in a loose circle, still catching our breath.
"Benny's our next move," Mister says. "We hit Ironwood next. But not loud. We need to plan."
Remi flicks blood off his knuckles. "Shit, we attacking right now?"
"Eventually," Mister says. "But not yet. First, we track Benny's movements and confirm his patterns. Then we take him alive. I want to question him about his operation before anything else."
Michelangelo folds his arms. "I can start mapping routes, security blind spots, and patrol schedules."
"Do that." Mister nods. "And find out who's on the list of VIPs. If he's only letting in dealers and women, maybe we can become one of those things."
I groan and palm my face, already having an idea of what's about to happen. "Please don't pick 'woman'."
"I was thinking 'dealer,'" Mister mutters. "But I'd like to keep that as a backup."
I give him a look. "So you're going to keep 'me dolled up' as a backup. You know that, right?"
Remi smirks. "Ey, we don't make the rules. Benny's the one with the sexist guest list."
Mister speaks again, evenly but not unkindly. "Artemis, I hate to break it to you—but if he's throwing parties in a base full of gangsters, we're not getting invited unless he thinks there's something in it for him. I don't like the idea of sending you in either, but I want to keep that option on the table."
Tetra gives me a sympathetic look. "We could always try a different angle. Maybe intercept a courier, or sneak in—"
"Or—and hear me out," I say dryly, "we just bash his teeth in. Same as we did with Blockhead."
Michelangelo shakes his head. "I concur with Mister. We need someone on the inside to gather intel. I can sneak in, but if I can't get everything we need, we'll need someone who can get close in other ways. It's better to have multiple points of entry. And we need someone who can walk through the front door."
"Damn it…" I groan.
"No one else fits the profile," Mister adds. "And you won't fall for his sleaze."
"Yeah," I sigh. "But I might fall for the urge to slit his throat mid-conversation."
"Please don't." Tetra chuckles. "I don't wanna die in a firetrap mall."
"I'm not saying we use you right away." Mister adjusts his gloves. "Only if the opportunity lines up. I promise—we'll treat you as a last resort."
"Fine," I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. "But if he touches me, I'm shooting his hand off."
Remi raises his hands in mock surrender. "Valid. We'll let you have that one."
Michelangelo clears his throat, drawing the group's attention. "Before we settle anything, we should scout it first. There's no point debating infiltration if we don't know the layout. I'll handle surveillance, but we need eyes on the plaza—tonight."
He's right.
As much as I hate it, charging in blind never ends well.
The Dead Kings reminded me the hard way.
"Agreed," Mister says with a nod. "We keep it quiet—no contact or confrontation. Michelangelo, you'll cover more ground scouting alone. The rest of us will move in together and stick to the perimeter."
Michelangelo nods briskly. "Understood. I'll report everything I find."
We split up fast.
I slide my blade away and grab my gear. Michelangelo's already halfway up a shipping container. The rest of us head towards Ironwood Plaza together—towards whatever twisted little kingdom Benny calls home.