In Chicago, there's a saying: For Black men, the two most dangerous places are the womb and Chicago itself.
And within Chicago, the West Side, dominated by three major gangs, is the most perilous.
Here, all businesses—be they stores, gas stations, or anything else—fortify their windows and doors with iron bars, and bulletproof glass encloses cash registers.
Even the poorest residents, who can't afford proper security windows, board up their own windows both inside and out.
The streets are littered with public safety warning signs. In every corner, used needles and condoms lie abandoned, while tattooed Black men roam the streets, guns in hand.
Boom!
In the serene beauty of the setting sun, a modified pickup truck crashed spectacularly into a bank, shattering its iron-barred gates and tempered glass doors as if they were made of paper.
A security guard patrolling near the entrance happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting struck by the truck, flung several meters, and left lying motionless on the ground.
"Robbery! Get down, everyone! Hands on your heads! I just want some cash. No one has to die."
A masked man emerged from the passenger seat. Standing about 1.8 meters tall, he had a strong, muscular frame that strained against his leather jacket. His voice was calm, articulate, and unnervingly composed—completely unlike the usual portrayal of aggressive robbers in movies.
Inside the bank, four customers were waiting: a middle-aged woman, a professional-looking man in a suit and glasses, an elderly man with white hair, and a towering Asian man nearly 1.9 meters tall.
The four seemed oddly accustomed to such situations. There were no screams, no resistance—only compliance. They obediently fell to the ground, hands clasped over their heads.
The masked man's gaze quickly swept over the four but stopped abruptly on the tall Asian man. His pupils narrowed in surprise.
There was something about this man—an aura that marked him as a peer, someone who had been to real battlefields, taken lives, and long since grown indifferent to the concept of life and death.
Even as a former special forces soldier from the elite DG unit, the masked man couldn't help but feel a twinge of caution.
But perhaps because the Asian man kept his face buried in the floor without showing any signs of aggression—or maybe because the robber wanted to avoid unnecessary complications—he chose not to confront him. Instead, he kept a discreet watch over him as he strode toward the counter.
"Good afternoon, lovely lady. Kindly pass the cash through the window. Once I fill this bag, I'll leave. And remember, no funny business."
The masked robber tossed a black cloth bag onto the counter and clearly stated his demands.
"Okay, okay, sir. Please stay calm. I'll get the money right away," the female teller responded. Her tone was steady, but her right hand subtly moved toward the emergency button beneath the counter to alert the police.
Unfortunately for her, this wasn't an ordinary robber. His keen observation skills and sharp reflexes caught her action instantly.
He didn't react with panic or aggression, nor did he make any move to escape. Instead, he issued a measured warning, as if conversing with an old friend:
"You're just a bank employee. According to state law, employees have no obligation to risk their lives during a robbery. Prioritize your safety.
I'd advise against playing hero. The price of being one is more than you can afford.
I know who you are now. You should believe me when I say I can find your family. The police won't guard you 24/7, but I can. Think carefully before you press that button."
His words, delivered with chilling calm, were far more effective than any gun.
The teller's face paled, and she slowly retracted her hand. She knew the bulletproof glass might protect her during work hours, but it wouldn't protect her—or her family—outside the bank.
There was nothing she could do against a composed and well-informed robber like this one.
With trembling hands, she stuffed stack after stack of cash through the slot—19 bundles in total, even throwing in the loose change.
"Sir, I'm so sorry. This is all we have. Please don't hurt me or my family," she pleaded, voice quivering.
"Excellent. Thank you for your cooperation. I hope you have a pleasant weekend."
The masked man glanced at the nearly $200,000 on the counter, his eyes betraying a fleeting moment of hesitation before he stuffed all the money into the bag.
Casting one last wary look at the Asian man still lying on the ground, he finally relaxed, convinced he had misjudged the situation.
He returned to the truck, climbed in, and shut the door with practiced ease.
Vroom!
The truck's engine roared back to life, its tires screeching against the bank's tiled floor, leaving a trail of black smoke as it sped out in reverse.
As the robbers drove off, the Asian man, who had been playing dead, suddenly sprang into action.
Not just moving—but moving with the precision and speed of a predator.
With a swift, athletic motion, he flipped to his feet, his gaze locked on the retreating truck. A sly, greedy smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Without missing a beat, he bolted out of the bank. Despite his nearly 1.9-meter height and 200-pound muscular build, he moved with astonishing speed. Like a hurricane, he burst onto the street and leaped onto an old Harley parked nearby.
Vroom-vroom!
The Harley's iconic growl roared to life as black smoke puffed from its exhaust, the bike hurtling after the pickup in the fading glow of the orange sunset.
In no time, both the truck and motorcycle vanished at the edge of the dilapidated street.
Fifteen minutes later.
The modified pickup sped into the Austin neighborhood, one of four notorious Black gang strongholds in Chicago's West Side. It came to a halt in the underground garage of an abandoned building.
The area bordered a street nicknamed "Dope Alley," where all three of Chicago's major gangs maintained bases. Shootouts and brawls occurred daily, often numbering in the dozens. Even the Chicago police dared not enter alone.
This natural haven of crime served as a perfect hideout for the worst of society.
"Hey, man! You're incredible. No wonder you're a special forces vet. I've been hustling in the West Side for over 20 years, and I've never seen a bank robbery go so smoothly."
The driver hopped out of the truck, yanking off his mask to reveal the face of a Black man in his 30s.
"I'm only doing this one job. After we split the money, we go our separate ways, as if we've never met."
The man who had carried out the robbery stepped out from the passenger side and removed his mask, revealing a tanned, rugged face—clearly that of a European-American.
His expression showed no excitement, only a deep weariness and resignation, as though desperation had driven him to this act.
"I need the money urgently. I'm taking $100,000. You drove, so you get the rest. I assume you have no objections."
The tall robber dumped the cash onto the hood of the truck, dividing it into two piles.
Then—
Bang!
A gunshot shattered the tense silence.