Rasta305

Tony Platanos stepped off the Greyhound, the Cuban sun still lingering on his skin. He’d been gone for years, a self-proclaimed “vacation,” though most who knew him figured it was more of an exile—time to cool off after the heat got too close in Los Santos. First thing he did was pull out his beat-up Android. He scrolled through until he found the only number that mattered. Tony: “Nick, where you at?” Nick: “Same block. Same life. Pull up.” A grin stretched across Tony’s face. Home. Nick was waiting outside a sketchy industrial garage area, sipping on a Dr.Pepper, same sly smile as when they were kids running through California state highschool, dodging cops after tagging walls, before Nick was drafted to the war. Their hug was heavy—years of loyalty pressed into one moment. “Vacation’s over,” Tony said, cracking his knuckles. Before Nick could reply, a blacked-out Cadillac rolled up. Three men stepped out, dressed sharp but carrying themselves with the arrogance of people who thought they owned the pavement. Local mafia types. One of them smirked at Tony. “So this the Cuban kid? Fresh off the boat, huh? Don’t they feed you in prison?” The laughter from the others didn’t last. Tony’s fist landed clean, one punch that dropped the man cold on the concrete. Silence wrapped around the block. Tony shook his hand, calm as ever. “I don’t joke about that,” he muttered. “Cuba took ten years of my life. Ain’t nobody laughing about it.” Nick stepped forward before the tension boiled over. “Relax, gentlemen. Tony ain’t here to play games.” The crew backed off, dragging their man into the car, but the message was clear—Tony wasn’t someone you tested. That night, after the chaos cooled, Tony and Nick sat on a roof, looking over the city lights. “So, what now?” Nick asked. Tony smirked. “Same thing we always do.” Within hours, the two were in motion—hoodies on, gloves tight. They moved like shadows through the suburbs, slipping into houses, grabbing jewelry, cash, anything worth flipping. Each window broken, each safe cracked, felt like old times. By sunrise, they were counting stacks in Nick’s kitchen, laughing like kids again. “Shits and giggles,” Nick said between breaths. Tony nodded, stacking bills. “Nah, brother. This is work. And we’re just getting started.”

https://medal.tv/games/gta-v/clips/koV9gKABtevLZEyMG?invite=cr-MSxVNkEsMzkwODY4MDg4

Let him cook!

I personally think its fair as a main crim for the most part. In real life cops have the advantage too. Kinda makes sense , I respect and like your post though forsure. I'm just saying my opinoun I feel like its balanced because in the real world cops do have the advantage once the crim is caught or under investigation. Crim's also have their own upperhand and advantages. As far as the armor part, this crappy micro ripped through handymananne's vest and life force. (sadly, love ya bilithy!) https://medal.tv/games/gta-v/clips/kl80hnkvxyOBMEMRy?invite=cr-MSxOaHYsMzkwODY4MDg4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_JeUbh_eYs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hDNfuBDyoU