Meanwhile....
In the crumbling skeleton of what had once been a downtown commercial district, a different kind of operation unfolded beneath the pallid sky. The buildings here leaned toward one another like exhausted conspirators, their windows shattered, their facades scarred by years of neglect and violence. But within one such structure—a former bank, its marble lobby now serving as a makeshift command post—activity hummed with desperate purpose.
A man stood at the center of it all. His posture was rigid, almost military, despite the frayed edges of his coat and the deep shadows carved beneath his eyes. Black hair, streaked with grey at the temples, was pulled back severely from his face and bound at the nape of his neck. He moved with the economy of someone who had long ago learned that wasted motion meant wasted time—and wasted time meant death.
