The old rowhouse groaned with every gust of winter wind. Floorboards creaked under heavy boots, shadows stretching long against peeling wallpaper.
Cormac "Hollow" Vance stood at the center of the living room, pistol steady, eyes sharp as broken glass. His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge that made everyone's nerves hum.
"Keep it tight. In and out. No noise, no nerves. We bury it tonight, it stays buried."
Ezra Pike didn't answer. He just kicked the locked door with one brutal stomp, splintering the frame. The sound echoed like a gunshot, but his blank stare said he didn't care.
Naomi Glass stepped inside next, her heels clicking against the wood before she slipped them off, muttering under her breath. "Every move you make, you leave a scar. You don't think people notice scars?"
Cormac ignored her, waving Silas forward. The kid's hands shook as he dragged the duffel bags inside, breath ragged. His eyes darted to the cracked ceiling, as if it might collapse on them at any second.
Ezra dropped the first bag onto the floorboards, the thud heavy, final. When Cormac unzipped it, stacks of bills and a pistol gleam spilled out like sin itself.
"Blood money," Silas whispered, voice thin.
Cormac's head snapped toward him, eyes hollow, voice sharp. "Money don't bleed. People do. And we ain't bleeding no more."
They piled the bags in the corner, boards creaking louder under the weight. Naomi knelt down, running her fingers over the warped wood. "This house won't hold forever. You bury secrets here, they'll find their way back up."
Ezra shot her a cold look but said nothing.
Cormac lit a cigarette, smoke swirling in the dim light. "Then we make sure nobody's left to dig."
The silence that followed was heavier than the bags themselves.
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard shifted on its own.