The dawn brought no respite, only a false sense of calm that hung in the air like cigarette smoke in a crowded bar. Max Hastings and Evelyn Fox stepped out of the factory, their faces etched with the grime of battle and determination. The Broker was dead, but the Syndicate was far from dismantled. They had cut off the head, but the body still writhed, and they needed to act before it could regrow.
The safe house, now more of a war room than a sanctuary, was strewn with maps, photos, and hastily scribbled notes. Max and Evelyn sat across from each other at the table, the tension between them palpable. The city outside buzzed with the mundane hum of morning routines, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of danger that defined their existence.
