The stench of sweat, blood, and panic hung thick in the shattered room. Cheap furniture lay overturned, glass glinted from broken frames and bottles, and the floor was smeared with the aftermath of a desperate fight. The last five gang members were now on their knees, bruised, bloodied, and shaking. Their faces carried every second of the brutal beating they'd just endured.
Héctor stood tall in front of them, shirt torn, knuckles raw, one eye beginning to swell. Yet he was calm—almost unnervingly so. His breathing was measured, his eyes cold and calculating. There was no rage left in him. Just purpose.
Behind him, his crew caught their breath. KK wiped blood from his temple with a torn sleeve, his grin twisted and manic. Goro leaned against a broken table, clutching his shoulder, teeth clenched from the pain. T-Bone, shirt stained with blood that wasn't his, flexed his hands like he still hadn't come down from the rush. Gengis sat quietly in a chair, holding his broken nose, dazed but alert.
Héctor took out his revolver. The weapon clicked as he opened the cylinder and spun it slowly, counting aloud.
—"One… two… three… four… five."
He snapped the cylinder shut. Five bullets.
He looked at the five kneeling men. Then he turned to his crew, and without a word, handed the revolver to KK.
KK's eyes lit up. He chuckled darkly as he walked toward the first man, a wiry thug with a torn jacket and fear in his eyes.
—"No! Wait, please—!"
BANG!
The man's skull exploded against the wall, painting the concrete red. His body dropped sideways like a puppet with its strings cut.
KK cackled, tossing the revolver back to Héctor.
T-Bone caught the next. He didn't say a word. Just stepped forward and pulled the trigger at the second man's chest.
BANG!
The impact threw the man back. He convulsed once, then stilled.
T-Bone wiped the blood spatter off his cheek and handed the revolver to Héctor.
No one was speaking. No one had to.
Héctor held the revolver for a moment, then offered it to Goro.
Goro hesitated. His fingers curled around the grip slowly. His lips trembled, but his jaw tightened. He stepped toward the third man—a kid, barely older than twenty, sobbing openly.
—"I didn't do anything! I didn't even want to come tonight! Please—!"
BANG!
The shot rang out, and the boy collapsed with a gasp, hands twitching.
Goro stood there for a long second, staring down at him, before walking back and dropping the revolver onto the couch.
Now there were two.
The bird-man was one of them. The one who'd tried to escape earlier. His right wing was twisted and limp, the bones shattered during the brawl. Feathers stuck to the blood on his face. He was shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and fixed on Héctor.
Héctor picked up the revolver again and walked slowly to him, crouching so they were at eye level.
—"You're going to answer a question. Just one."
The bird-man nodded frantically.
—"Who sells you the drugs?"
—"Th-The Doctor! It's the Doctor!" he blurted. "We get it from one of his guys—comes by every few days, sometimes once a week. I swear! That's all I know!"
Héctor's face didn't move. Not a twitch. He stood back up and shoot him, and turned toward Gengis, who had been watching in silence.
Their eyes met.
Héctor extended the revolver toward him.
Gengis blinked. Swallowed. He didn't say a word, just took the weapon in both hands, as if unsure whether it was heavier than it looked—or just heavier with meaning.
The last man—a bearded brute with a bruised eye and a swollen jaw—started to crawl backward.
—"Wait! You got what you wanted, man! You don't have to—"
BANG!
Gengis had fired before the man could finish.
The silence afterward was complete. No one breathed. The room, once filled with chaos, now felt still. Hollow.
Héctor looked at his men, one by one. Blood on their clothes, bruises on their faces, sweat running down their temples.
But none of them looked away.
He nodded once, then turned his back to the corpses and walked toward the bar's back door.
They wasted no time.
"Grab the product. The cash. If there's anything else you want, take it," Héctor ordered without emotion. His voice was the sound of business, not celebration. The blood in the room hadn't even dried, but already they were moving.
KK crouched by one of the corpses, holding his zippo lighter up and flicking it open and shut like a nervous tick. "We should torch this place," he suggested, eyes gleaming with mischief. "No bodies, no trail."
Héctor thought for a moment. It wasn't a bad idea. "Do it," he said. "Gas line. Close the kitchen door."
KK grinned wide. "With pleasure."
While the others ransacked the stash and stuffed duffel bags full of drugs and bills, KK got to work. He soaked a few cloths in oil, dragged a trail across the floor, and turned on the gas in the kitchen. When the door slammed shut behind him, the house was a loaded bomb with a lit fuse.
Outside, under the morning light, the crew moved fast. They carried their loot in bags slung over their shoulders, breath fogging in the cool night air. As they stepped away from the house, KK paused for a moment, took out his lighter, and with one final flick—fwoosh—the rag ignited behind him.
They didn't look back. Not even when the windows began to glow with firelight.
Goro, meanwhile, had gotten curious. He'd wandered over to a beat-up old sedan parked just outside the house—the kind of car that had lived through wars. Rusted, chipped paint, windshield cracked like spiderwebs.
A FV-4S. Red. Dented. Dirty. But it worked.
He open the door, with a key he found on a table in the house, popped the trunk, finding a few empty beer bottles and a glove box with insurance papers long expired. A deathtrap on wheels—but better than hauling gear on foot.
He waved at the others. "We're riding."
They piled in like sardines, shoulders bumping, bags crammed at their feet. Héctor took the wheel, cool and quiet as ever, eyes on the rearview. No one dared complain about the tight space. They just drove into the morning horizon, leaving flames and blood behind.
Back at the bar, the smell of booze and cigarette smoke at 11AM welcomed them like an old friend. Héctor sat down at their usual booth in the backroom, methodically wiping down the revolver with a rag. Each swipe erased a little more of the past hour. Bullet by bullet, he reloaded it, calm and precise.
On the table, Mon-Mon and Go-Go were sorting through the loot with impressive focus. Neatly stacking cash, counting pills, separating the product into piles. The two worked like accountants—if accountants were surrounded by blood money.
"Well?" Héctor finally asked, barely glancing up.
Go-Go didn't look up either. Her voice was level. "A thousand Kyono Dollars. Sixteen hits of Flashbang. Five Dustfire. And a car—a piece of shit FV-4S, compact sedan, red, and barely alive."
She finally looked at him, brushing her short white bangs out of her eyes.
"It's parked at Spiky's. Plates are gone. Covered with a tarp. No one's gonna find it unless they know where to look."
Héctor gave a slow nod. "Good job."
Just two words. But for Go-Go, it was everything. She nodded, the faintest twitch of a smile forming before she looked back down and resumed counting.
The rest of the group was quiet. KK leaned back in his chair, boots propped on a broken table leg, his face unreadable behind those red-tinted glasses. T-Bone stared at the wall, unmoving, arms crossed over his broad chest. Goro sat near the bar, nursing his wrist with a bag of melting ice, while Gengis hadn't said a word since they got back—his eyes still fixed on some invisible spot on the floor.
They had killed tonight.
Not just fought. Not just stolen.
They had executed. Point-blank. Cold.
Héctor knew what that did to people. He watched them carefully, reading their silences, the twitches in their expressions, the restless tapping of fingers.
He spoke calmly, confidently.
"Everything's going to be alright."
His words cut through the silence. The group looked up.
"I'm going to get you weapons. Real ones. No more busted pipes and kitchen knives. And if Go-Go does her part right... we'll have more product. More clients. More power."
Go-Go gave a determined nod. "I'll do it."
He stood then, stretching his arms before cracking his neck with a satisfying pop. The tension in the room loosened. KK let out a long exhale, and T-Bone uncrossed his arms. Even Goro seemed to relax, just slightly.
Héctor walked toward the bar, poured himself a drink—cheap whiskey—and raised the glass.
"To the Cartel's future."
The others looked at each other, then one by one raised their glasses, bottles, or cans.
"To the future," they echoed.
It wasn't a loud cheer. It wasn't a roaring victory. But it was real.
They were no longer just kids on the fringe.
They were his soldiers now.
And the war was just beginning.