Leon didn't believe in redemption. Not anymore.
He crouched in the shattered remains of an abandoned arcade, the smell of mold and old electronics thick in the air. The glow from his phone barely lit the blueprints in his lap—schematics for one of Bishop's safehouses on 53rd. He memorized them with cold precision.
His Glock rested on his thigh, finger loose on the frame, ready.
There were no more second chances. No last-minute miracles. Just bullets and blood and men like Bishop who needed to be ended.
Leon had once worked for the man. Young, angry, fearless—exactly the kind of weapon Bishop loved to wield. And when Leon had finally seen the truth and turned on him, Bishop sent monsters to carve reminders into his skin. The scars on his back still itched in the cold.
He glanced at the burner phone. One missed call from Aaron. Good. It meant he got the message.
Inside his jacket was a small black box. Inside the box? A chess king. One of Bishop's signatures.
A declaration.
Leon's jaw tightened. He knew what that meant.
Bishop was calling Aaron out. This wasn't a game anymore—it was war. Psychological. Personal. And Bishop wanted them to dance until they tore themselves apart.
He stood, pocketed the phone, holstered the gun.
"I'm done dancing," Leon muttered.
He stepped out into the night, Chicago's wind howling like a warning.
The reckoning was coming—and Leon was bringing the fire.