The city slept under a blanket of fog, its restless dreams seeping into the streets. Max Knight was back in his office, the familiar smell of stale smoke and whiskey hanging in the air. The night's chaos had left him weary, yet there was no rest for a man in his line of work. Shadows still lurked, and secrets whispered from the corners of every room.
Max leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking in protest. His eyes, hard and unyielding, traced the contours of the cityscape outside his window. Black was dead, but the Puppeteer network was like a hydra—cut off one head, and another would take its place. He needed to dig deeper, find the roots, and tear them out.
The door creaked open, and Vivian slipped in, her presence a soothing balm against the raw edges of his mind. She looked at him with those eyes that saw too much, understood too well.
