With Luther Stone's ominous warning lingering in the air like a foul odor, Max Hartwell knew he was treading on thin ice. The confrontation had stirred up more questions than answers, leaving him with a sense of unease that clung to him like a shroud.
Leaving Danny behind in the relative safety of the penthouse, Max ventured back into the neon-lit streets of Baybridge City. The rain had intensified, a torrential downpour that seemed to match the turmoil churning within him.
He made his way to a seedy bar on the outskirts of town, a place where shadows danced to the tune of broken dreams and shattered hopes. The clientele here were the forgotten, the forsaken, and the damned—a perfect breeding ground for secrets.
Max slipped inside, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke assaulting his senses. The bartender, a grizzled veteran of the trade, eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and resignation.
"What can I get ya?" the bartender grunted, towel in hand.
"Information," Max replied, sliding onto a stool at the end of the bar.
The bartender arched an eyebrow, a silent invitation for Max to elaborate.
"I'm looking for someone," Max continued, his voice low and measured. "A memory dealer. Goes by the name of Luther Stone."
The bartender's expression darkened, a storm cloud passing over his features. "You're poking your nose where it don't belong, friend," he warned, voice barely above a whisper.
Max leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not your friend," he countered. "But I need to find Luther Stone, and I need to find him fast."
The bartender hesitated, then nodded towards a back corner of the bar, where a figure sat hunched over a drink, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face.
"Last I heard, he was there," the bartender muttered, wiping down the counter with unnecessary force.
Max nodded his thanks and made his way towards the figure in the corner, each step a reminder of the danger he courted with every move.
As he approached, Luther Stone looked up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Max. "Hartwell," he sneered, his voice a poisonous hiss. "You've got nerve showing your face here."
Max took a seat opposite Luther, his expression impassive. "I could say the same about you," he retorted, folding his hands on the table.
Luther's lip curled into a contemptuous smile. "What do you want, detective?"
"I want answers," Max replied, his tone cutting through the smoky haze like a knife. "About Victor Kane. About Elena Voss. About why you're so interested in covering your tracks."
Luther's smile faltered, replaced by a glimmer of uncertainty. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering with a fear he couldn't quite hide.
Max leaned in closer, his voice a low growl. "I know you're lying, Luther. I know you had a motive to kill Victor Kane, and I know you're not above getting your hands dirty to protect your interests."
Luther's hands tightened around his glass, the knuckles white with tension. "You've got nothing on me, Hartwell," he spat, but his bravado rang hollow in the face of Max's unwavering gaze.
"Maybe not yet," Max conceded, leaning back in his chair. "But I'm not done digging. And when I find the truth, you'll wish you'd never crossed paths with me."
With that, Max pushed himself away from the table and left Luther Stone to stew in his own guilt and fear. Outside, the rain had finally begun to let up, but Max knew that the storm brewing within the heart of Baybridge City was far from over. And he was determined to weather it, no matter the cost.