The two thugs stumbled into the Supreme suite, their breath reeking of cheap whiskey and unfiltered tobacco. They exchanged a knowing, jagged smirk as their eyes swept across the room, eventually landing on Nicholas Johnson. To them, the scene was a stage, and they were the lead actors in a play commissioned by the very man sitting on the plush leather sofa.
The one leading the duo, a scarred individual known in the underbelly of Novus City as Sandler, blew a slow, mocking smoke ring into the air. He ground his cigarette butt into the expensive carpet with the heel of his boot, a predatory glint in his eyes. "You lot look like fresh faces," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel being crushed. "Out-of-towners, I’m guessing? Lost your way in the big city?"
Chris Rowe felt a surge of in
