Rain fell like shattered glass over the city.
The streets were slick, empty, and trembling with the pulse of danger that came only after midnight.
Aria Morgan adjusted her camera lens from behind a rusted dumpster, her heartbeat syncing with the shutter's quiet clicks. She shouldn't have been there. Every instinct screamed run. But the story she was chasing—the one about the mysterious Volkov crime syndicate—was too big to walk away from.
Then she saw him.
Demian Volkov.
Even in the chaos of the alleyway, he was calm—dark coat, black gloves, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His men stood in silence around a man on his knees. The man begged, voice cracking against the thunder.
Demian didn't speak at first. He just watched—eyes cold, unreadable—as if the world itself waited for his command. Then, finally, his voice came—low, accented, and deadly smooth.
"You lied to me, Viktor."
The man sobbed, "Please, Demian, I—"
The gunshot silenced everything.
Aria froze. The camera almost slipped from her hands. The sound of that single bullet echoed deep in her chest.
Her breath caught as Demian turned slightly, head tilting, as though he could feel her watching.
Their eyes met.
For one terrible second, the world stopped.
Then he smiled—slow, knowing, dangerous.
"Find her," he said softly.
And Aria ran.