Chapter 227: movements
The alley was a festering wound in the city’s underbelly, a claustrophobic slit between two rotting buildings where light dared not linger.
Steam hissed from corroded pipes, their groans a dying pulse, and the air clung heavy with the stench of damp asphalt and decay.
Shadows draped the narrow passage, fractured only by the spasmodic flicker of a failing streetlamp, its sickly glow stuttering against slick brick.
A lone figure leaned against the wall, swallowed by darkness, his black hood erasing his face, a faint red glow pulsing from the device strapped to his wrist, a heartbeat in the murk.
He waited, still as a specter, his breath shallow, his presence a whisper in the urban decay.
A low hum sliced the silence, followed by footsteps—calm, deliberate, heavy with unspoken authority, each step a claim on the night.
The hooded figure didn’t stir, his wrist device blinking steadily, its red light casting eerie reflections on the wet wall.
"Didn’t expect the call this soon," he said, his voice low, laced with dry amusement. "Things moving faster than you planned? Or.... Are they even going according to your plan?"
The footsteps halted, the air thickening, a palpable weight settling in the alley.
A silhouette emerged into the streetlamp’s faltering glow, partial and commanding.
Mid-forties, lean but broad-shouldered, his tailored coat hinting at a disciplined frame.