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Canisters bounce across the concrete, filling the space with thick gray clouds.

"Move up! Push through!"

We advance through the haze, violent shadows in the artificial fog.

Someone looms in front of me—I put two in his chest before he can raise his weapon.

Another on my right—Kraken drops him with a headshot.

"Left side, left side!" someone shouts.

More shooters, trying to flank us.

We pivot, laying down suppressing fire.

We're working together without thought, covering each other's blind spots.

Whatever beef we have, it doesn't matter in combat.

Brothers first.

Always.

"Frag out!" Emil's warning comes just before the explosion.

Screams follow, then silence from that direction.

We push forward, stepping over bodies, boots slipping in blood.

The main floor opens into a massive storage area, and what we find stops us cold.

Pallets of drugs.

Not just fentanyl—everything.

Heroin, meth, synthetics I don't even recognize.

Enough to supply half the state.

"Jesus," someone breathes. "Look at all this shit."

"This is bigger than we thought," Fenrir says. "This isn't just distribution. This is the whole fucking operation."

"Documents," Tor calls out, already at a desk covered in papers. "Shipping manifests, distribution networks... fuck me, this is huge."

I move to look while Kraken covers the entrance.

Names, dates, quantities.

And there—Dylan Mitchell, listed as a "distribution coordinator."

Before I can respond, Fenrir's voice cuts through: "Found something else. You need to see this."

We follow him to a side office where he's standing over a map pinned to the wall.

It's our city, marked with colored pins.

Red in the minority neighborhoods.