“Who is it?” he called, staying a safe distance from the door. The voice that answered him was male and unfamiliar, hoarse and slightly higher than the average.

“If you even think of climbing out the windows, I’ve got eyes on your fire escape attached to a loaded gun. Open the door.”

The brothers tensed, glancing in unison towards the street, and Adrian hopped quickly off the windowsill and stepped up against the fridge.

“Who are you?” Marcos demanded, his jaw clenching when the answering knock was audibly made by something harder than a fist.

“It’s rude to lock your friends outside. Open the door or we’ll kick it down.”

Adrian shook his head, and Marcos gave a tight nod and backed up. If he opened the door he’d be too close for safety - too easy to disable or shoot outright. They’d had to repair their door a dozen times already, and once more wasn’t the worst that could happen.

The first kick was too close to the center, and one of the panels cracked away from the frame. The second splintered the doorframe next to the lock, and the third sent the door swinging wide and slamming against the wall behind it. The man who caught it as it rebounded and shoved his way inside was of average height, with a haggard face and sandy-colored hair that was thinning away from his temples. He wore grey jeans and a black jacket, with a stained t-shirt beneath. Two other men followed close behind and immediately spread out; one stood with crossed arms in front of the bathroom after glancing inside to confirm it was empty, while the other took Adrian by the upper arm and pushed him further into the room before taking up position by the windows. Adrian immediately backed again into a corner, this time alongside their freestanding wardrobe. Marcos stood with his hands at his side, eyes locked on the ringleader.

“You owe us money,” the man stated without preamble. He held a pistol in one hand and moved it in a gesture seemingly intended to draw attention to the weapon, but something about the movement felt strange. Loose. Marcos noticed for the first time how red the man’s eyes were.

“We don’t know who you are,” Marcos said, keeping his voice level. The man licked his lips and swallowed, giving his head a shake that – again – felt more fluid than was natural.

“Don’t give me that shit-“ The stranger’s voice was abruptly a shout, and as he gestured at Marcos with his gun the brothers’ posture shifted in unison, two variations on a ‘ready’ stance. Out of the corner of his eye, Adrian saw the men on either side move as well, but – strangely – he couldn’t tell whether they were facing more towards himself or their leader.

The blond man lifted the hand holding the gun and ran it over his scalp. “Why h’ain’t you paid us, kid? You know the rules. You have no right t’be surprised-“ again he gestured at them with the pistol, “that we come collecting. So you got any excuses?”

“We don’t. Know who you are,” Marcos repeated, his words clearly enunciated. He risked a glance at the nearer of the two backup muscle, and was confused by the man’s noncommittal expression.  “What do you think we owe you?”

“Do you hear this?” The leader spoke to one of the men, who just stared back at him impartially. “Says he doesn’t know what he owes. Doesn’t know he’s been getting’ protection, from a family you don’t fucking mess with, and thinks he just doesn’t have to pay for our services.” He turned back to Marcos and stepped forward aggressively. “Your business ain’t shit without us, Cervantes, you’ll have the Steel smashing up shop in a week, you got that? Now give us the fucking cash-“

A number of realizations went through the brothers’ heads simultaneously, in the moments before the man shoved the barrel of his gun hard against Marcos’ chest. The backups seemed collected enough, but their leader had a sheen of sweat across his forehead and upper lip. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated. His gaze was slightly unfocused no matter how close he stood.

And also- this was their first encounter with one of the gangs who ran whatever parts of Neon were worth running: businesses, mostly, landlords occasionally. Dangerous organizations of dangerous men, but, generally speaking, men who knew their trade and kept their books of names. Not men who mistook penniless civilians for paying customers. However this individual had come to lead in whatever small capacity, he wouldn’t be holding that position for long.

Regardless, when the gun hit his chest Marcos acted on instinct. His right hand shot up and slammed into the side of the piece, shoving it off target less than a second before the muzzle flashed and a deafening bang rang out. More clumsiness – firing indoors, in a crowded building, when you’re not sure of your target. His left hand closed on the man’s wrist and he spun, twisting the arm as he turned and punching down on his grip as hard as he could. The pistol clattered to the floor and he kicked it immediately towards the gap between the lower mattress and the wall.

Adrian, meanwhile, darted forward and flung his hands out in opposite directions, towards the remaining two men. He, too, had picked up on the difference between them and their leader; there was a chance they would respond to logic, though that chance grew slimmer as the shot fired off dangerously close to him and his brother grappled with the blond.

“There’s cameras,” he said urgently, looking quickly from one man to the other, and was rewarded by a second’s hesitation as they drew their own guns. “We’re neutrals, the apartment’s bugged.”