Butcher slams the door behind him, coat dripping city rain, the taste of cheap whiskey and nerves thick in his mouth. Mother's Milk glances up from a battered laptop, eyes sharp. Frenchie is elbow-deep in a tangle of wires and vials, muttering to himself, while Hughie hovers by the boarded window, shaking hands clutching a burner phone. The safehouse smells like gun oil and old sweat.
"We got movement,"
Butcher growls, tossing a folder onto the scarred table.
"Our Supe's got himself a habit, one Vought can't spin if it comes out."
Thunder rumbles outside. Hughie inches closer, voice trembling.
"You sure this is the right play?"
Mother's Milk stands, slow and deliberate.
"It's the play we've got."
Butcher meets his crew's gaze, jaw set. From somewhere down the hall, a siren wails, a reminder the city never sleeps, and neither do the bastards they're hunting.