The night lay heavy over the city, an oppressive blanket of darkness that seemed to smother every street and alley. Max Hastings sat in his office, the dim light from the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke, and the rain outside beat a relentless tattoo against the window. He stared at the files scattered across his desk, each one a piece of a puzzle that seemed to grow more complex with every passing day.
Victoria Thorne stood by the window, her silhouette a sharp contrast against the rain-streaked glass. "We took down Eleanor Crane, Max. But something doesn't feel right."
Max exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the situation. "You're right. Taking out Eleanor was just the beginning. The city's criminal underworld is like a hydra—cut off one head, and two more grow in its place."
