RENZO'S POV

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Pain has a twisted sense of humor. It likes to show up when you've got nothing left to laugh with.

Like now.

I was flat on my back in a half-rotted shed, ribs howling, side bleeding, and face covered in dirt. Not the poetic kind either the gritty, wet kind that makes you question all your life choices.

Somewhere back there, gunfire had cut through the night like a bad breakup text. But now, all I could hear was my own breathing and the steady, stupid beat of my heart ...