The rain fell like a cascade of broken promises on the asphalt of Baybridge City, each drop splattering against the neon-soaked streets like a forgotten whisper. Maxwell Hartwell stood under the flickering light of a lone street lamp, his trench coat a shield against the relentless drizzle. The city breathed around him, exhaling plumes of steam and the distant wail of sirens—a lullaby for the sleepless.

Max's gaze was fixed on the Emerald Lounge, a dive bar that glowed like a beacon for the lost souls of the night. He had been standing there long enough that the rhythm of the rain seemed synced with his shallow breaths. This was his world, a place of shadows and fleeting light, where every face hid a story, and every story was a potential deception.

He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the puddle at his feet, watching the embers hiss and die, then pushed through the Lounge's door. The smell of stale beer and cheaper regrets hit him like a wall. The bartender, a slab of a man with a nose that had been broken more times than he'd cared to count, nodded at Max without a smile. Recognition, nothing more.

Max took a seat at the far end of the bar, his back to the wall, eyes sweeping over the room. The usual crowd littered the place: gamblers, dreamers, hustlers, all trading hopes for oblivion. His contact was late, and in Max's line of work, late often meant trouble.

"Whiskey, neat," Max told the bartender, his voice low, almost lost beneath the drone of a jazz tune struggling from the old jukebox.

The drink came, and with it, a shadow fell across the bar. She was outlined against the dim light like a secret waiting to be told. Elena Voss—the kind of woman who entered rooms like she owned them, her presence enough to draw the gaze of every patron in the dive.

She slid onto the stool beside him, the scent of her perfume cutting through the tobacco and damp like a clean promise. "Maxwell Hartwell," she said, her voice smooth, a stark contrast to the grind of the city outside. "I was beginning to think you'd stood me up."

"I don't stand up clients, Miss Voss," Max replied, taking a sip of his whiskey, letting the burn remind him to keep his wits about him. "You're the one who picked the time and place."

Elena smiled, a curve of lips that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Let's skip the pleasantries. You know why I'm here."

Max nodded, setting down his glass with a deliberateness that matched the steady, untrusting gaze he fixed on her. "Victor Kane," he said simply. That name hung between them, heavy with implications.

Her eyes flickered, a shutter click of emotion. "He's dead," she declared, as though saying it out loud might make it less true.

"And you think I can find out who did it," Max concluded. It wasn't a question. People didn't come to Max Hartwell with their problems unless they were desperate. And murder was the deepest kind of desperation.

"I don't think, Mr. Hartwell. I know." Elena's fingers drummed on the bar, a staccato against the slow jazz. "You're the best at what you do. And you're immune to memory extraction. You can walk this city without fear of losing your secrets to the highest bidder."

Max studied her for a moment, weighing her not just as a client but as a part of the puzzle. "Immunity doesn't mean invulnerable, Miss Voss. Everyone has a breaking point."

"Perhaps," she conceded, a wisp of a smile returning. "But let's find the killer before we worry about breaking points, shall we?"

Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the city clean with its unforgiving rhythm. Inside, Max Hartwell made a silent toast to the complexities of the human heart, raised his glass to the ghosts of the past, and agreed to step into the storm Elena Voss carried with her.