The city had a way of breathing that only those who walked its shadows could feel. For Aryan, the pulse of the streets was almost a living thing, a rhythm of danger, opportunity, and betrayal. He had left the docks behind hours ago, but the weight of what he had found there lingered. The folder, the notes, the cryptic warnings—they weren’t just messages. They were instructions for a game he hadn’t fully understood yet.
Rain had returned, soft at first, then gathering into a steady drizzle that washed the neon lights across puddles on the empty streets. Aryan moved through the alleys like a shadow himself, careful not to leave a trace. Every step, every turn, every silent footfall was deliberate. He knew the city would not forgive a mistake, and the eleventh bullet was already in motion.
