The western suburbs of Pittsburgh, 2 AM.
A light rain drifted from the sky, carried on a cold wind.
Luigi Randall pulled his heavy, gray hoodie tighter around himself.
He wore a mask, the hood's brim pulled down to his brow, revealing only a pair of bloodshot eyes.
A black backpack was slung over his shoulders, containing a few changes of clothes and an encrypted laptop.
He had been on the run for four days.
From the streets of Philadelphia to the wilds of Pittsburgh, Luigi felt like a rabbit hounded by hunting dogs, constantly running.
Adrenaline sustained his exhausted body, but a searing burn gripped his stomach. Hunger was devouring his sanity.
His last meal had been twenty hours ago: half a sandwich he'd found at a gas station.
Just then, a yellow "M" sign appeared before him—a 24-hour McDonald's.
Luigi stood in the shadows across the street for a full five minutes.
He observed the situation inside.
