The rain started falling just after midnight, as if the heavens themselves had decided to wash the city's sins down the drain. But Max Hastings knew better. In this town, dirt clung to the soul like a bad habit, no matter how much you tried to scrub it away. Standing under the flickering neon sign of the Last Call Bar, he lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face.
Max took a long drag, the smoke curling up around him like ghostly tendrils. His mind was a storm of thoughts, plans, and doubts. The Syndicate might have taken a hit, but it wasn't down for the count. And Blackwood's capture had only stirred up the hornet's nest.
He exhaled slowly, watching the rain turn the street into a river of glistening reflections. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—a mournful sound that seemed to echo the city's perpetual despair. Max crushed the cigarette under his heel and pushed open the door of the bar.
