Marcus Devereux leaned against the worn counter of a dimly lit bar, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers as he stared up at the television mounted in the corner.
Around him, patrons barely paid attention to the dramatic broadcast blaring overhead—an intense car chase, gunmen pursuing a single vehicle down crowded streets, headlights slicing through the night.
But Marcus, ever the soldier, was riveted.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing with that familiar glint of amusement.
"Ah, Alexander," he muttered with a smirk, taking a slow drag. "Only you would turn a car chase into a bloody Broadway performance."
As Alexander's car darted through the streets, narrowly dodging obstacles and somehow managing to stay one step ahead of the pursuing cars, Marcus chuckled and shoo
