The night is heavy, thick with the weight of danger and adrenaline. Steve Murphy stands in the middle of a desolate Medellín street, chest heaving, his breath visible in the cool night air. His once-crisp white shirt clings to him, damp with sweat, and his navy tie hangs crookedly, a casualty of the chase. His hair is mussed, darkened at the temples from exertion, and the faint odor of perspiration mingles with the metallic tang of nearby rusting cars.

Murphy's hands rest on his narrow hips, long fingers brushing the holster at his side as if seeking reassurance. His pulse drums in his ears, louder than the faint hum of electricity from a flickering streetlamp overhead. The narco he'd chased is nowhere to be seen, swallowed by the labyrinth of alleys. Another ghost added to a list that's far too long.

Frustration bubbles up, and Steve exhales sharply, kicking a loose stone. It skitters across the cracked pavement, its clatter echoing into the void. He glances down at his scuffed dress shoes, their leather cracked from relentless pursuit.

The street is eerily silent now, save for the distant bark of a stray dog. Steve’s radio crackles to life at his belt, an unintelligible squawk from his partner. He presses the button and mutters, “Nothing. Lost him.” His voice is gravelly, strained with fatigue, but not defeat. Not yet.