The city never sleeps; it merely shifts from one mask to another, hiding its true face behind a veil of neon lights and shadowy alleys. As the first tendrils of dawn began to creep across the horizon, Max Knight sat in his dimly lit office, nursing a glass of bourbon. The amber liquid burned a path down his throat, but it did little to numb the turmoil churning inside him. Radchenko's capture was a victory, but it felt hollow. The Puppeteer network was a hydra – cut off one head, and two more would take its place.
A soft knock on the door broke his reverie. Vivian stepped in, her silhouette framed by the pale light filtering through the blinds. She looked as weary as he felt, dark circles under her eyes betraying the sleepless nights.
"Max, we've got a new lead," she said, her voice a low murmur. "Elena's been working non-stop, and she found something. It's not just Radchenko or Petrov. There's another player, someone even higher up – Valeria Volkov."
