The street outside Sherly's flower shop was usually alive at this hour, small stalls closing for the day, children running between doorways, neighbours exchanging gossip in the fading light. But tonight, one by one, shutters slammed closed. Wooden doors creaked as bolts slid into place. Curtains were drawn tight, faces peeking out just long enough to confirm what everyone feared.
The silence that followed was heavier than nightfall. Only the sound of boots breaking the quiet pavement echoed down the lane.
Lyth's men moved with precision. They came in pairs at first, blending in like shadows slipping between cars and lampposts. Then more arrived, fanning out to take positions on corners, stairwells, even rooftops. A black van rolled to a stop at the far end of the street, its headlights dying, leaving only the dim glow of the streetlamps and the restless hum of danger.
Whispers passed through the alleyways: "The Khan's men are here. The flower shop is cursed tonight."
