10:24PM - Crunch's house.

The air was cold, and streets shimmered faintly from the rain, puddles reflecting the neon hum of storefront signs and the muted glow of streetlights not yet switched off. A few leaves skittered along the pavement, caught in the lazy wind that carried the scent of wet concrete and that faint, acute scent of damp earth. In the quiet stretch where Crunch’s house stood, the world felt slower, the hum of traffic reduced to a distant murmur. The house itself was old, the kind with sagging eaves and windows that whistled in the wind, but inside, it was cluttered with the chaotic warmth of a place that had seen too many late nights.

The house smelled like a mix of old wood, cigarette smoke, Francie noted. Outside, the city moved on, people going about their day with no idea that, inside this worn-down house, something big was brewing. The overcast sky pressed low, the weight of it matching the tight knot of nerves in the groups stomach — Anticipation for this heist.