The city was quieter at night—almost too quiet, like it was holding its breath.
Logan's steps were swift but silent as he walk through the alleyway.
His hoodie clung to his frame, the black fabric absorbing the faint amber glow of the distant streetlight.
The air smelled faintly of rust and damp concrete. He passed a broken lamp, then ducked through the iron gate without pausing.
Inside, the space breathed shadows.
The place wasn't marked, and it didn't need to be. The air was thick with unspoken rules.
Conversations stayed low, eyes stayed averted.
Tables were mismatched, chairs squeaked, and the walls were covered in peeling black paint and half-torn posters.
Somewhere, a jazz record played softly beneath the hum of an old ceiling fan.
Logan scanned the room once.
Then walked to the farthest booth.
A man sat there already, his back turned slightly, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
The smoke curled around his knuckles like mist.
