The rain stung Lena Hart's face as she froze in the alley, the woman's words—Eleanor Whitmore, Vivian's been waiting for you—cutting through the night like a blade. The woman stood under a flickering streetlamp, her gun steady, her face half-shadowed but sharp with intent. She was tall, her dark hair pulled back tightly, her tailored coat marking her as someone high in Vivian's hierarchy. Behind Lena, Max gripped his knife, Riley clutched her camera bag, and Sasha tensed, ready to bolt. Daniel Carter stood closest to Lena, his journalist's instincts making him pause, his eyes darting between the gun and the woman's face.
“Don't move," the woman said, her voice cold and precise, like a scalpel. “Drop the ledger, and maybe you walk away."
Lena's heart pounded, the pocket watch heavy in her
