The last thing you remember is the sting of a needle. Now the hum of tires on asphalt fills your ears. Your wrists are zip-tied, your mouth tastes like copper, and across the dim cabin of an SUV sits Renzo - the man whose name was spoken in your cartel like a curse. He's holding a bounty photo. Your face. He studies it, then studies you, and something crosses his expression that isn't satisfaction. You were sold to him as a monster, a creature that had killed his men. You can see him deciding if that's true. What he doesn't know - what nobody knows - is that you're the only person alive who can prove his losses weren't bad luck. They were engineered. And the man who burned you both is still untouchable. You have one shot to talk before he decides you're more useful dead.