"Don't talk. Stay with me." Felix wrapped an arm around Rachel and used the other to push through the crowd, inching their way toward the exit.
Rachel whispered, "What's wrong, Felix?"
"Something's off. We're leaving."
They ignored the chaos around them and reached the entrance. "Open the door. We're getting out."
The doorman, high and twitching, only clapped in rhythm with exaggerated gestures. "Come on, man, the party's just starting. Beautiful night—enjoy it!"
Felix frowned, ready to shove him aside—
A shout cut through the crowd: "Crips, get the fuck off the stage!"
"Power to the black man!"
"Go back to Atlanta!"
Onstage, Mango Foo froze, trying to reason with them. "Hey, guys, just give me a moment, listen to the track—you'll see it differently…"
No one gave him the chance. Bottles, tissues, cigarettes rained onto the stage. His manager and crew rushed forward, shielding him and dragging him toward the back.
"Bloods!"
Someone screamed it, and a man vaulted onto the stage. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and opened fire. Mango Foo and his crew dropped instantly.
The crowd shrieked and broke apart in panic.
A few smart ones had already reached the exit, hammering on the door. The doorman kept clapping, lost in the beat.
Felix pulled Rachel into a filthy corner. A junkie nearby grinned through rotten teeth, a needle poised in his arm. Felix dropped him with a single punch, kicked the syringe far away.
It landed on a half-naked woman. She didn't even notice, still writhing in place.
Onstage, the gunman emptied his mag, slammed in a spare, and, crazed with adrenaline, sprayed into the crowd. Screams filled the hall as people stampeded toward the doors.
This time the mob shoved the doorman aside and tore the doors open. He tried to shout but was trampled into silence.
Felix seized the moment, slipped out both their phones, and tossed them into the rushing crowd. The crunch of glass underfoot followed—deliberate erasure.
The shooter soon emptied his second mag. He flung the gun aside and tried to flee. Two men burst from backstage, shouting, guns raised.
"Die!"
The volley cut him down where he stood.
"Kyle!"
The cry rose from the floor. Several men pushed through, firing back at the stage. They were his crew. In their world, "partners" meant loyalty—boys who grew up together, smoked together, fought together. If one of them struck it rich, he was expected to take the others with him: bodyguards, errand runners, scapegoats, even killers. A man who abandoned them was despised, eaten alive.
The two onstage lacked the skill. One fell in the first exchange, the other bolted and was gunned down before he reached the back.
"Kyle's dead!"
"They killed him!"
"Show those Crip bastards what Bloods can do!"
Rage spread, and more men surged toward the stage.
Backstage fighters cut the lights, plunging the warehouse into darkness save for one dim lamp at the rear.
The first two who rushed under it were met by gunfire, crumpling forward. They clawed at the floor with their arms, dragging useless legs, leaving streaks behind them.
By now most of the audience had fled, leaving trash, smoke, and the opportunists—scavengers stripping watches, chains, even pawing at the half-conscious, laughing as they looted. Nothing was wasted: weed, needles, jewelry—all vanished into pockets.
Their eyes caught Felix and Rachel in the corner. A beautiful white girl, unguarded—easy prey. They moved in.
Felix lifted his shirt, hand resting on the grip, a tilt of his head warning them off.
They only laughed, baring teeth.
"Felix… let's just run," Rachel whispered, clinging to him, terrified. She regretted it all now—the assignment, the detour, everything. Gunfire in front, scavengers closing in, and no way out.
But running was never the plan. If he'd wanted to, he could've long ago.
Felix had sensed the tension earlier, had planned to leave. But once bullets flew, he found his resolve harden. Why waste such a chance?
He patted Rachel's back, steadying her. Then raised his right hand, as if miming a shot. In the same instant, the system placed a pistol into his palm—appearing out of nowhere to any onlooker.
He fired in quick succession.
The first three dropped instantly, stunned by the impossible gun in his hand. A fourth turned to run—Felix cut him down with three shots to the back.
[Host has eliminated four targets. Progress: 5/10]
He pulled Rachel down with him, shifted position carefully, dragging a chair in front for cover. He avoided the floor littered with syringes—more dangerous than stray bullets.
Onstage, the gang members assaulting the back hesitated at the gunfire echoing below. They froze, exchanging uneasy glances.