The rain fell in sheets, a relentless curtain that blurred the city's hard edges and turned the streets into slick, reflective pools of darkness. Max Hastings sat at the bar in Tommy's speakeasy, nursing a drink that tasted more like regret than whiskey. He stared into the glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light like the last embers of a dying fire. The speakeasy was a sanctuary, a place where the city's grime and noise couldn't reach them, but even here, shadows whispered of danger.
Evelyn slipped onto the stool beside him, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts. She ordered a drink, her eyes scanning the room for threats, but her attention quickly returned to Max.
"We got Crane's lieutenants, but he's still out there," she said, her voice a low murmur that blended with the jazz playing softly in the background. "And the mole... he's still a threat, even if he's behind bars."
