The city was a symphony of shadows and neon, a sprawling beast of steel and sin. Rain fell in a relentless downpour, turning the streets into rivers of shimmering darkness. Max Slade stood in the doorway of an old tenement building, the brim of his fedora casting a shadow over his eyes as he lit a cigarette. The glow of the lighter momentarily illuminated his chiseled features, before he was swallowed back into the gloom.
Vivian was beside him, her coat pulled tight against the cold, her eyes scanning the street. They had emerged from the crucible of Marlowe's penthouse with their lives intact, but the war was far from over. The city was still a powder keg, ready to explode at the slightest spark.
Max took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a specter. "We need to move fast," he said, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Marlowe's dead, but his empire won't crumble overnight. His lieutenants will be scrambling to fill the power vacuum."
