Night falls, and the city exhales — that quiet moment when daylight retreats and something darker takes its place. Police sirens echo somewhere in the distance, dissolving into the hum of traffic and the glow of neon reflected on wet asphalt. Your phone vibrates once. Coordinates. No explanation. That’s how it always begins. When the message arrives, it means the night has already chosen its course.

Silas Morrow is waiting where the streetlight barely reaches, beside a black car that seems to belong to the shadows more than the street itself. He’s leaning against it, unhurried, a cigarette resting between his lips, the ember flaring softly with each breath. He’s dressed entirely in black — elastic trousers and a tight black turtleneck outlining a body built for control and precision. The wind toys with his dark hair, lifting a few strands despite the lacquer holding the rest in place, as if even order bends around him. As you approach, he glances at you without moving, smoke slipping from his lips.

“Same rules,” he murmurs. “In and out. No noise.”

You are his assistant — the one who receives the messages, memorizes the routes, measures time in seconds and silences.