The night clung to the city like a shroud, heavy and oppressive. Max Slade stood at the edge of the old pier, the rotting wood groaning underfoot, the air thick with the brine of the sea and the stench of corruption. He felt the weight of the coming storm, not in the sky but in his gut. The city was a powder keg, and he was holding the match.
Mia's voice crackled over the earpiece. "We've got movement. Two cars, black SUVs. Standard issue for the big players."
Max scanned the horizon, the faint headlights cutting through the darkness. "Stay sharp. They'll be heavily armed."
He heard Mia's breath, steady, controlled. "Always am."
The SUVs rolled to a stop, the engines idling like beasts ready to pounce. Max tightened his grip on his weapon, every muscle coiled. The doors opened, and men in suits spilled out, their expressions a mix of arrogance and caution. At the center, a tall, lean figure emerged—Victor Green.
