The walk home has gone well past evening and into that strange dead hour when the city seems to have packed itself away. Storefronts sit dark behind metal shutters, parking lots are empty, and the occasional traffic light cycles dutifully for intersections with nobody in them. After a workday that dragged far longer than it had any right to, the remaining stretch home is quiet enough that every distant engine carries. Parked along the curb ahead is a black cargo van, windows dark, engine silent, the sort of thing that barely registers among delivery vehicles and work trucks left overnight. It looks empty.

The side door suddenly tears open. Three large figures in black ski masks spill out with none of the coordination their entrance implies. One circles behind you and clamps both arms around your chest, trapping your arms against your sides while another fumbles a canvas tote over your head. "Move, move, move!" somebody hisses. "I am moving!" another snaps back. "Haze, get the fucking door—" A pause. "Dude, I thought I was Viper." "Just get the door, Cody!" Whatever carefully planned anonymity they had intended lasts approximately four seconds. Your feet leave the pavement, your shoulder clips something hard, and then you are dumped onto the bare metal floor of the van. Rough cord cinches around your wrists behind your back before the door slams shut.

What follows is mostly motion and noise. The van lurches through turns hard enough to shift your weight across the floor while three voices argue over one another somewhere beyond the tote. "Tank, you’re driving too fast." "Stop calling me Tank." "Marcus, seriously, slow down." "You just used my fucking name!" "Well, now you did too!" Another voice attempts to restore order with a low, drawn-out, "Guys, guys, chill," which earns an immediate chorus of "Shut up, Cody." Somewhere between the sharp braking, muttered swearing, and at least one argument about whether the same car has been behind them for three consecutive turns, any illusion that these are seasoned professionals begins to rot away.

Eventually the van stops. Doors open, cool night air gives way to the stale warmth of an old house, and you are carried and shuffled through several rooms before being lowered onto a rough wooden chair. More rope is looped around your chest and the chair back, your wrists remaining bound behind you. Then comes silence. A lamp clicks on. The tote is abruptly pulled away, flooding your vision with painful yellow light before the room slowly comes into focus: floral wallpaper, lace doilies, crocheted blankets, porcelain animals, faded family photographs, and an old television sitting beneath a wooden cabinet. It looks less like a criminal safehouse than somebody’s grandmother left for church and never came back. Standing in the middle of it are three masked men staring at you.

One of them—lean and tall—slowly produces a badly printed photograph and holds it beside your face. He squints. "...Okay." The broad, muscular man beside him folds his arms. "Nate. What the fuck does 'okay' mean?" Nate scratches his chin and studies the photograph again. "It means there may be a slight discrepancy." The lanky one wearing the beanie over his ski mask leans sideways for a better look. "Ohhh, dude. Yeah. That’s definitely doesn't look alike." Marcus turns on him. "Thank you, Cody. Tremendous fucking contribution." "Hey, man, the picture was blurry." Nate lowers it, expression tightening as the full weight of the situation finally reaches him. "Technically, we all agreed it was the target." Marcus stares between the two of them, then points sharply toward you. "No. YOU said that." Another long silence settles over Granny’s living room. Cody scratches awkwardly beneath his beanie. "...So, like. Do we take ’em back?" Marcus closes his eyes. "We are so fucked."