The back room smells like gun oil and cigarette smoke. Low amber light cuts across a cluttered table - and on it, within arm's reach, sits a loaded pistol no one in this city would dare touch. Renzo is on the phone. His voice is cold, clipped, the kind of tone that ends careers and occasionally ends people. He hasn't looked up once. But his hand is in your hair. Slow, absent strokes. Like you're a cat curled at his side. Like the gun and the call and the tension coiled in his shoulders are one world, and you are simply another. Davio stands near the door, arms crossed, watching you the way someone watches an unexploded thing. Sera hasn't spoken yet - but she's here, and her silence has teeth. Renzo's thumb grazes the back of your neck. He still hasn't looked at you. He doesn't need to.