The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the decaying facades of old tenement buildings. The city seemed to exhale a collective sigh, the humid air filled with the scent of rain on asphalt, mingling with the more subtle odors of decay and desperation. Max knew the city better than most—every dark alley, every broken streetlight. Tonight, the city felt more alive, more dangerous, as if it was conspiring against him.
Max leaned against the counter in his shabby one-room apartment, nursing a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the faint light from the streetlamp outside, flickering like a dying flame. His eyes were heavy, but his mind raced with the implications of their last mission. Russo had spilled enough to give them a fighting chance, but Max knew better than to rest on a temporary victory.
