Chapter 5: Baptism in Blood

The stench of gasoline and smoke still lingered from the previous night's chaos. The air was thick with tension and diesel, the kind of morning where the city didn't wake up—it staggered back to its feet after getting sucker-punched by the night. Felix stood by the cracked window of their safehouse, sipping black coffee like it was holy water. Ivan, on the other hand, was passed out shirtless on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, a cigarette still burning between his fingers.

"You know that shit'll kill you, right?" Felix muttered, not turning around.

Ivan groaned, one eye blinking open. "So will a bullet to the head. At least this tastes better."

Before Felix could respond, a knock—slow, deliberate—broke the silence.

Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks. The signal.

Felix walked over, undid the locks, and opened the door just enough to peer through. Outside stood a man—mid-40s, grizzled face, thick scar down his cheek. Ricardo, the local boss's right-hand man.

"Get dressed," he growled. "Boss wants you two to run an errand."

---

Ten minutes later, Felix and Ivan were rolling down the Miami streets on their bikes, engines snarling like wolves.

"What kind of errand needs us before breakfast?" Ivan asked, lighting another cigarette.

Felix shrugged. "Something tells me it's not flowers and chocolates."

They pulled into a warehouse on the outskirts of Little Havana. Inside, crates were stacked high, and men with automatic rifles patrolled like dogs off the leash. Ricardo waited by a table covered in blueprints and photos.

He pointed at the images. "This is the Salazar deal. Cocaine. High grade. They're moving it through our turf without asking. Boss wants it stopped. Tonight."

Ivan grinned. "Finally. Something fun."

Ricardo didn't smile back. "This ain't fun, boy. It's a test. You fuck this up, you're done. You pull it off... you're in."

Felix leaned in. "How many men they got?"

"Eight. Maybe ten. Armed. Ruthless. But they're not expecting heat yet."

Ivan cracked his knuckles. "Then let's be the goddamn fire."

---

That night, the warehouse raid went off like a symphony of violence. Felix slipped through the shadows, disabling lookouts with brutal efficiency. Ivan? He went in guns blazing.

"Time to paint the floor red, you bastards!" he roared, opening fire with twin pistols.

Bullets screamed, men yelled, crates shattered. One of the Salazar goons lunged at Felix with a machete, but he parried the blow and slammed the guy's head into a steel beam.

"Stay down if you wanna keep breathing," he warned coldly.

Meanwhile, Ivan kicked a man into a stack of crates and shot another through the knee. Blood sprayed across his face.

"Tell Salazar the Fiend says hi," he spat.

By the time the dust settled, only Ivan and Felix were standing—bloodied, bruised, but breathing.

---

Back at the safehouse, Ivan stitched up a wound on Felix's arm. Felix hissed.

"You need to stop diving into bullets for me."

Ivan chuckled. "Then stop looking like a damn target."

"You're a maniac."

"And you're a fortress. My fortress."

They both laughed—tired, raw, but real.

Their bond was sealed not in blood, but through it.

Just as they were about to crash, a package arrived—no name, no return address. Inside: a single Polaroid of them at the raid, taken from a distance.

Written on the back, in red ink:

"We see you. Keep climbing."

Felix looked at Ivan.

"So... someone's watching."

Ivan lit another cigarette. "Good. Let 'em watch. We ain't stopping now."