Order at a suspicious place

The pizza guy had been through worse.

That was the thought running through his head as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway of the rundown apartment building. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, and the flickering overhead light cast everything in a sickly yellow hue.

Still, a job was a job, and a delivery was a delivery.

He glanced down at the receipt. First floor, third room. Easy enough.

Balancing the five boxes in one hand, he knocked on the door with the other. There was a long pause before heavy footsteps approached. The door creaked open, just a crack at first, and then swung wide.

Oh.

The pizza guy immediately wished he had called in sick today.

The men inside were MASSIVE. Like, cartoonishly jacked. They barely fit inside their clothes, muscles straining against tank tops and ripped jackets. But that wasn't the worst part. Their eyes—a burning red glow, veins pulsing unnaturally along their thick necks.

Venom.

He knew what this was. He had read about them online. Bane's Streetgang. Thugs who worshipped Bane, enhanced themselves with Venom, and terrorized the streets.

"Look what we got here," one of them grunted, cracking his knuckles. His arms were practically the size of the pizza guy's entire torso. "Delivery boy."

"Come in," another said. It wasn't a request.

The pizza guy took an instinctive step back. "Uh, y'know, I'd love to, but I really should be—"

A thick, calloused hand grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him inside.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The room was dark, cluttered with weights, beer bottles, and God-knows-what-else. The walls were covered in Bane-inspired graffiti—masks, fists, and the words "BREAK THEM" spray-painted in blood-red.

He gulped. Oh no.

One of the men grabbed a pizza box off the stack and opened it. "Smells good," he muttered.

"Relax, we didn't bring him here for pizza," another snapped. He turned to the pizza guy. "We need information."

"I—information?" he stammered.

"You work at that pizza joint, yeah?"

He nodded quickly.

"We need a new front," the man continued. "A place where we can keep shipments moving. Your store looks nice. Busy enough to stay under the radar, quiet enough that no one asks questions."

The pizza guy's stomach twisted. They wanted to use his workplace as a cover operation?

The leader stepped closer, looming over him. "Who's your boss? What hours do you work? How many employees?"

The pizza guy hesitated, mumbling something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I, uh—"

"Speak up."

The leader cracked his knuckles. Around him, the others stretched, rolling their shoulders, muscles flexing ominously.

'Oh no. Is this where I die? Is this where they **** me?'