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Worse, a pair of bodies was lying on the ground: a young woman, likely the receptionist, and a middle-aged man who must\'ve been a visitor. The amount of blood around them left no doubts about their state.

It was evening, but in this kind of massage parlor those must\'ve been still busy hours.

In a flimsy cover of a potted plant, there was kneeling a big man who was only slightly less bloody than the corpses. He was holding a handgun with one hand and putting pressure into a wound in his forearm with another.

He was in his thirties, but looked older because of the premature gray hairs on his head and the amount of small scars on his face. The face which really was familiar to Tristan.

This was Tomas "Iron Jaw" Carbone. He didn\'t have a very high rank in the gang, but the amount of fights he lived through commanded respect from other King Lion Gang members.

Tristan had briefly crossed paths with him several times before, although they didn\'t get to work together.

At the sight of Tristan, Tomas raised the gun, but then recognition flickered in his eyes.

"Ah. Hayes, right? Where are the others?"

"What others?"

"The help. You didn\'t drive these assholes off on your own, didn\'t you?" When Tristan didn\'t reply immediately, Tomas snorted. "Don\'t tell me…"

"I\'m sure others are only a few minutes away."

After all, Tristan wasn\'t the only person in the Good Lion Bar at the time. Others just were mostly too high-ranked for responding to calls like this one, or non-combatants at all.

Tomas let out a breath.

"That\'s good. There are people in the back who need to see a doctor. Our girls, mostly."

Tristan, indeed, heard some scuttling from deeper in the building.

He frowned.

It was as good a time as ever to finally get a medicine skill.

"I\'m going to help with what I can while the help isn\'t here," Tristan said. "There has to be something to wrap wounds with. And you can tell what happened in the meantime."

While Tristan said all that, he was already pulling out his phone and writing a brief text to Pierce. Just a few words: "Got there, drove them off".

He didn\'t respond, anyway.

After that, Tristan went to search for medical supplies around the wrecked place—or at least a replacement.

"I will tell ya, I never was a racist, but now I want to be," Tomas said while Tristan cut window curtains into stripes with a knife. "I just came here to relax, when they came. Good thing I don\'t go anywhere without my gun."

Tristan returned to Tomas, and the man immediately took the reins of the first aid attempt. He clearly knew what to do, and was only stopped from doing everything himself by the blood loss and having only one hand to work with.

"Tighter, put it tighter! C\'mon, what are you afraid of? Hurting me even more?" Tomas\' laughter was cut off by a pained wince. "Damn, not THAT hard! Anyway, these bastards got right inside, shot everybody they could see.

There were a few other guys inside who fought back, but most of them were caught with their pants down, so if you walk into the inner rooms, you will see some dead dicks in the hallway. But we drove them back in the end."

By the end of this story, Tristan tied a sloppy bow over Tomas\' arm.

The bandage looked like shit, but together with the minuscule practice Tristan got from treating his own injuries earlier, he finally got it.

[Ding!]

[You gained a new skill—treating injuries. Reward: 100 PP!]

Tristan smiled and helped Tomas get up on his feet.

The big man wobbled at first, but eventually stood on his own. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a cigar case.

Tomas pulled out a cigar and bit on it, then silently offered the case to Tristan, who shook his head negatively.

Tomas shrugged and put the cigar case away. He never actually bothered to light his cigar.

Tristan was about to suggest that they go inside and give first aid to whoever else needs it, when he heard a car approaching from the outside.

He immediately tensed and reached for a gun, just like Tomas. However, when they peeked out of a window, they saw that the car\'s driver was a man from their own gang. And next to him sat Andrew Pierce himself.

"Even he is here…" Tristan muttered.

As soon as Pierce stepped out of the car, he began giving out orders. First to the people inside the car, then—when he entered the parlor and was greeted by Tristan and Tomas—to them.

"Are there heavy wounded?"

"In the back, Mr. Pierce."

"Carry them to the car. I want this place cleaned up to the best of your ability in an hour!"

That was the police response time to a large gunfight in this district.

The orders urged everybody to hurry.

In thirty minutes, with the help of more arriving gangsters in a van, the wounded were driven to a hospital, and the corpses—either be dumped in a shallow grave somewhere, or to the morgue. There were about half a dozen of each, not counting the enemies.

The corpses belonging to the Cuatro Angulos gangsters were missing some pieces after Pierce was done with them.

An hour after the attack later, Tristan sat together with Tomas in Good Lion Bar\'s staff resting room.

Pierce still wanted a full report from them, but in the meantime, they had some time to rest and eat. Tristan wasn\'t too hungry, but Tomas was wolfing down bar sandwiches like a starving African child.

"A second attack in two days," Tristan mused aloud. "A blatant provocation, from what I can see. I\'m surprised Mr. Pierce didn\'t attack back before that, though."

He threw a narrow-eyed look at Tomas, estimating his reaction.

Tristan wanted this man on his side.

And he also wanted… a bit of a coup.

"I think he\'s too cautious to attack rapidly even after right today. But you know him better, Tomas. What do you think?"