Days after sending a brutal message to a store owner who broke omertà, the crew returns to the scene, not to finish the job, but to read the street’s pulse.
The storefront still wears the wounds of that message: shattered signage, boarded windows, smeared blood stains that no mop could fully erase. But it’s not the wreckage they’re watching, it’s him. The store owner’s nephew stands just outside, pacing with restless energy, jaw tight and eyes burning holes through the passing Stratum.
Word around the neighborhood is he’s been talking reckless, throwing threats in every direction like he’s ready for war. He’s young, loud, and stupid, the worst combination. For now, the crew doesn’t act. They just observe, quiet behind tinted glass. But decisions are being made. And if the kid doesn’t learn fast, the street’s about to teach him what it costs to keep a dead man’s pride alive