In the dimly lit Warehouse, several men were seated, among them a tall man with a scar across his face, who was the gang leader. They were discussing why the people they sent hadn't returned yet, wondering if the mission had failed, when suddenly the Warehouse doors were flung open.
The scar-faced leader roared, "Who is it?"
A line of about twenty men entered, each dressed in suits, tall and imposing, wearing sunglasses, and all carrying pistols. These weapons, despite being the most professional of silencers, bore a distinctive emblem on them.
Their presence in the Warehouse was absolutely awe-inspiring.
The scar-faced leader knew they were not to be underestimated.
But he wasn't scared; he had his own men. Glancing at his crew, though they numbered about ten and were dressed casually, they all had a rough and tumble air about them.
The contrast between the two sides made the superiority clear.
