The city didn't sleep; it brooded. Neon lights cast their sickly glow on the rain-slick streets, the hum of electricity a constant reminder of the pulse beneath the decay. Max Hartwell sat at his desk, the single lamp casting sharp shadows on his face. Papers littered the surface, a chaotic testament to their relentless pursuit of the Syndicate. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm, a silent drumbeat of impatience.
Carmen Alvarez leaned against the doorframe, her dark eyes locked onto Max. "We need to talk," she said, her voice cutting through the room's stagnant air.
Max looked up, his eyes tired but alert. "About what?"
"Nick's information. He says there's a mole in our ranks. Someone feeding the Syndicate our every move."
Max's jaw tightened. "That's impossible. Our team's small. Tight-knit."
"Think about it, Max. Every time we get close, they're a step ahead. We need to find out who it is, and fast."
