The city at night was a neon jungle, electric veins pulsing through the dark concrete. Max paced the narrow alleyway, his trench coat flapping against his legs like the wings of a restless bird. The rain was a fine mist, more felt than seen, turning the streetlights into hazy halos. Each step echoed off the brick walls, a metronome of tension.
Inside the dimly lit office, Mickey "The Fixer" Malone was waiting. His office was a relic from the 1940s, complete with Venetian blinds casting slatted shadows across the room. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting a weak light over the cluttered desk. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey permeated the air.
Max knocked twice, a coded rhythm, before entering. Malone didn't look up from his papers, a sign of practiced nonchalance. His fingers drummed a staccato beat on the desk as Max approached.
"Evening, Malone," Max said, his voice as smooth as aged bourbon.
