The night sky over the city was a curtain of black velvet, pinpricked by a few reluctant stars. Max Slade walked down the rain-slicked streets, the damp air clinging to him like a second skin. Neon signs buzzed and flickered, their sickly glow casting twisted shadows on the pavement. He tugged the collar of his trench coat tighter against the chill, his mind replaying the night's events.
Vivian walked beside him, her face set in a mask of determination. The explosions, the fires—those were their opening gambit. Salvatore's empire was shaking, and now was the time to strike the death blow.
"Max," Vivian said, her voice barely above a whisper, "what's our next move?"
Max stopped under the flickering light of a streetlamp, turning to face her. The rain had matted her hair to her forehead, but her eyes burned with resolve. He knew that look well—it mirrored his own.
