The city wore its darkness like a second skin, every alleyway a vein in the heart of its malignant soul. Max Slade knew the contours of this darkness, the way shadows moved, the subtle dance of danger that thrummed beneath the surface. The cigarette between his lips glowed, a brief ember of defiance against the oppressive gloom.
Vivian's heels clicked beside him, a staccato rhythm that cut through the silence. They'd lost their weapons, but not their resolve. The penthouse prison where Marlowe held them was a gilded cage, every luxury masking the bars of their captivity. But Max was a man who thrived in shadows, who found strength in the darkness.
"We need a plan," Vivian murmured, her voice a low whisper that barely disturbed the air.
Max nodded, his eyes scanning the room, every detail a potential weapon. "There's always a way out. We just have to find it."
