"You ain't welcome here."
The man didn't need to repeat himself. His posture did that for him—arms folded like steel beams, eyes flint-hard, body set like an avalanche waiting to fall. Still, for the sake of courtesy or curiosity, I tilted my head and asked, "What do you mean by that?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"I mean what I said. Masked Syndicate ain't welcome in this country."
That gave me pause.
I studied him, and for a brief moment, I forgot the toast in my hand. The room felt smaller. Not because of the mountain in front of me, but because of the sudden awareness in the air. The boy was still watching, eyes wide, lower lip trembling.
Syndicate. He had said it like a curse.
Slowly, I turned my head. And there, across the room, plastered to the faded wallpaper near the vending machine, were posters.
Five of them.
