The El was dead tonight. No trains. Just wind moaning through the rusted rails above, and the low buzz of streetlights fighting to stay alive.
Aaron and Leon walked without speaking, keeping to the alleys. Bishop didn't need snipers—he used memories for bullets.
Aaron kept replaying the photo. Matt's face, carved into a warning. That smile—painted on like a mask. A message. A mockery.
"Now you'll watch."
Aaron gritted his teeth. He had watched. Every time Matt slipped. Every time he begged for another chance. Every time Aaron believed him. Because they were more than addicts. They were brothers in the mud.
He wouldn't watch again.
Leon broke the silence. "We can't go in blind."
Aaron stopped. Turned to him.
"We never see him coming," Leon said. "He doesn't kick doors down. He walks through them like he was always invited."
Aaron's voice was low. Controlled.
"That's why we stop inviting him."
Leon frowned. "What does that even—"
But Aaron was already moving again. Focused. Cold.
He needed eyes. Guns. Noise.
And there was only one place in the city dumb enough to give him all three:
The Bone Yard.
A defunct railyard now swallowed by gangs, lunatics, and washed-up hitters with nothing to lose. You wanted muscle? You found it there. You wanted death? You tripped on it.
They reached the fence by midnight. Razorwire above. Graffiti like a sickness on every wall.
Leon hissed, "This is suicide."
Aaron smiled, teeth like broken glass.
"No," he said. "This is the invitation."