The rain was a constant companion, a relentless curtain that blurred the edges of reality and drowned out the noise of the city. Max Hastings stood under the eaves of a derelict building, the collar of his trench coat turned up against the downpour. The city's heartbeat pulsed in the distance, a steady thrum of life and decay.
Elena and Maria were huddled nearby, their faces set in grim determination. Trent was already inside, laying the groundwork for their next move. The success of their operation at the mansion had given them momentum, but Max knew they were only scratching the surface. The deeper they dug, the more sinister the web became.
Max lit a cigarette, the brief flare of the match casting shadows on his face. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around him like a ghost. "We can't stop now," he muttered to himself, more to steel his own resolve than anything else.
