It was night and the rain fell in silver threads over the rusted bones of Blackridge, washing grime from rooftops that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Neon signs flickered above shuttered pawnshops and brothels, their dying light reflecting in oil-slick puddles that painted the streets in fractured color.
Ethan Cross stood beneath a dented awning, his hood pulled low, cigarette burning to a tired ember. The smoke curled upward, lost to the wet night. He had always liked the rain—it silenced the world. Hid the gunshots. Blurred the past.
This street had been his once. The Iron Syndicate’s old quarter. Back when he’d been someone men whispered about. Back when “Wolf General” wasn’t just a name—it was a warning.
He hadn’t come here to remember. But some ghosts are louder than reason.
Now h
