The bar was dimly lit, soaked in the thick scent of alcohol and smoke. The familiar hum of voices and clinking glasses filled the air as Jake — or Andrew, as few dared to call him in this place — leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.
Around the table sat Ryan, Keon, and Neon, all nursing their own drinks. The mood was deceptively calm as they discussed the upcoming gang confrontation scheduled a month from now — a fight that could shift the entire underground power balance.
Keon, already on his third bottle, was clearly a little too loose with his tongue. His speech slurred slightly, his posture relaxed in a dangerous way that only drunk men who’ve forgotten who they’re sitting with dare to tak
