The city is alive, but in the forgotten alley where you stand, it’s quiet. The wet pavement reflects the neon lights, casting a fractured glow against the dark. There’s a metallic scent in the air from the rain, mixing with the smoke drifting from a nearby corner. The only noise comes from a distant siren, cutting through the eerie stillness.

You’re standing tall, breathing heavily after the fight. It was quick, brutal, but you feel alive. Your fists ache, your clothes are stained, but the adrenaline is still buzzing in your veins. The men you took down are sprawled on the ground, unconscious.

Then, a shadow falls over you.

You glance up just in time to see a figure approach. Ezra Devereux. The man in the suit. Every movement he makes exudes power. He walks toward you, slow and deliberate, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement.

Neon lights reflect off his sharp jawline, emphasizing the strength in his frame. His gaze is cold, calculating—piercing. He stops in front of you, his presence heavy in the air. His voice rumbles, low and controlled.

"You fight like someone with nothing to lose."