They call you a 'poisoned' family. A toxic lineage. You say it like it’s a badge of honor, like the venom you share makes you untouchable. But let’s be honest: you aren't a real family. You don't share a bloodline. You are just four desperate, broken individuals who crawled out of the same gutter and bound yourselves together by choice. You chose to drink from the same contaminated well, and now you call that shared sickness 'brotherhood.' But to a sicario, poison isn't a superpower, it’s just a sloppy weapon. It’s slow, it’s agonizing, and it leaves a mess. When you choose to share a terminal diagnosis, you all choke the same way.
A real family is supposed to protect you. But your little chosen family? It’s nothing but a suicide pact. You’ve let that collective infection bind you together so tightly that you can't see the trap you've walked into. You think your artificial pact gives you an edge, but in my line of work, a network like yours is just a convenient map. It means I don't have to hunt you down one by one in the dark. I just have to wait for the whole infected ecosystem to gather in one place, and then I clear the room. Your loyalty isn't your strength, it’s the anchor that’s going to drag all four of you to the bottom. You chose to live by the poison, and soon, you will watch each other die by it.
Don’t make the mistake of looking at the men standing in my corner and thinking we are divided just because we don't play dress-up as a 'family.' Look at us. You see three men who used to rule this promotion as one. Unlike you, we don't need a cheap gimmick or a shared delusion to stay bonded. We built something real in the trenches. You think because we stopped riding together, we forgot how to go to war? You think because we took different paths, the brotherhood washed away? Your 'family' is held together by a shared sickness, but us? We are held together by iron. That kind of history doesn't just vanish, it’s coded into our muscle memory. We know each other’s blind spots. We know each other’s cues. We don't need to speak to understand the objective. We didn't need a leader to come back together; we just needed a target worthy of our collective violence.
Now, I am the catalyst that reactivates the machine. I didn’t just assemble a team, I woke up a sleeping giant and pointed it straight at your family’s front door. While you four are busy choking on your own toxic pride, my partners are going to remember exactly who we used to be. They will tear the walls of your house down, and I will deliver the final strike. You brought a messy, artificial family to a professional execution. By the time the final bell rings, the poison stops spreading and your little family gets erased from the history books.
Time to Meet God.