The alley behind the bar lay steeped in a dim and restless quiet, where the faint glow of distant streetlights failed to reach the deeper corners, and the scent of damp concrete lingered like an unspoken warning beneath the still air of San Diego, while shadows stretched longer than they ought, as though the night itself had chosen to settle there with intent.
A figure leaned against the brick wall with an ease that did not belong to ordinary men, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, his fingers brushing faintly against the surface as though feeling the pulse of something unseen beneath the world's skin.
Damien Cross lifted his gaze slowly, his expression calm, almost thoughtful, though the faint curve of his lips carried something sharper, something far more knowing than the quiet surroundings suggested.
