The dawn seeped through the grimy windows of the warehouse, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Max sat in a corner, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee. The night's events played over in his mind like a broken record, each scene replaying with painful clarity. Beside him, Vivian was sprawled on a makeshift cot, her eyes closed but her face taut with tension.
Jameson was at the desk, bathed in the cold glow of his laptop screen. His fingers danced over the keyboard, each keystroke a calculated move in a deadly game of chess. The room was filled with the quiet hum of machinery and the distant echoes of the city waking up to another day of hustle and grime.
Max couldn't shake the feeling that they were living on borrowed time. Kovacs and Marconi wouldn't rest until they were silenced for good. He took a sip of the bitter coffee, the taste grounding him in the harsh reality of their situation.
