The rain poured down in relentless sheets, the sound of it drumming against the pavement like a thousand tiny footsteps. Max Hartwell stood in the alleyway, his trench coat soaked through, his fedora pulled low over his brow to shield his eyes from the driving rain. He lit a cigarette, the flame casting a brief flicker of light in the darkness before he took a long drag, the smoke curling around him in lazy tendrils.
He had been tailing a suspect for hours, following him through the labyrinthine streets of the city as he searched for any clue that might lead him closer to the truth. The man was slippery, elusive—a ghost in the night who seemed to slip through Max's fingers at every turn.
But Max was nothing if not persistent, and he wasn't about to let a little rain deter him from his pursuit. He took another drag of his cigarette, the bitter taste of it mingling with the metallic tang of the rain-soaked air as he pressed forward, his senses on high alert.
