The silence was heavier than the stink of gunpowder. Ferro’s body still bled into the cracks of the floor, steam curling in the cold air.

Dr. Veins pushed his glasses higher, voice even, clinical, like he hadn’t just watched a mob boss executed at arm’s length.
“I think,” he said, “the demonstration speaks for itself.”

The Dons shifted uneasily. Some crossed themselves, others flexed fingers around pistol grips. Fear lingered in their eyes, but greed shone brighter, gnawing at them like hunger.

Vinny Teeth spat his gum into the corner, smirking.
“Cute trick, Doc. But what if that green glow fries the brain? What if it’s all smoke?”

The Barber’s voice slid in cold and sharp.
“Then why is Ferro the one on the floor, and not his soldier?”

Nicci stood near the corpse of his old boss, eyes gleaming faint green in the shadows. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His steady grin said it all.

One by one, the Dons stepped forward. Their hands trembled, but not from fear of dying. From fear of being left behind. Each plucked a syringe from the case like it was holy scripture.

Not a word was spoken. Not a toast, not a pact. Just a silent promise sealed in glass.

When they left that slaughterhouse, the night air felt colder. Like the city itself had sensed something unnatural had just been born.