The air inside the abandoned warehouse was thick with tension as Leon and his group squared off against a rival gang. Knives glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights, chains rattled ominously, and fists were clenched in anticipation. It was supposed to be a routine scuffle, a turf dispute where the unspoken rule was to keep it to fists and melee weapons.
Suddenly, a gunshot shattered the tense silence.
Leon's world tilted as a sharp, burning sensation erupted in his skull. He stumbled, feeling the sticky warmth of blood trickling down his forehead. Fred's voice cut through the chaos, screaming his name, but it sounded distant, as though he were underwater. Blinking through the haze, Leon searched for the shooter. His gaze fell upon a familiar face—Mark, the new recruit who had seemed so eager to join their brotherhood.
Leon's knees buckled as darkness closed in around him. His last thought was one of bitter irony—betrayed not by an enemy, but by one of their own.