Raven Maxson

It was a cool night. The breeze from the ocean swept all of its surroundings and island with a satisfying amount of cold.

In a dark and small building in California, there were two dozens of hefty and well-builded men. Some others were outside, guiding the surroundings and making sure it's not attacked or rampaged.

They were seven particular men in a wide room, one that smelt of drugs and liquor. They were plastic chairs scattered about in different directions—some looking like they hadn't been washed in months.

The room had the vibe of a cemetery—quiet and void of life even though they were seven living beings in it. The windows were open, but it was still very hard to breathe.

The seven men all had serious and stern expressions on their faces. Nobody was saying anything.

Three of them were sniffing a small pack of cocaine with eyes as red as blood. Three others were taking long draws of Jamaica-made marijuana.

There was something everybody in the room had in common, and that