The Audi R8's V10 engine gave a low, predatory hum as it navigated the narrow, uneven streets leading to the gated complex where Catharine shared an apartment. The car felt out of place here—a shard of obsidian and silver cutting through a neighborhood of faded paint and weary commuters.
As they rounded the final corner, the smooth rhythm of the evening shattered. A cluster of people had gathered at the main gate, their silhouettes backlit by the flickering amber of a streetlamp. Above the murmurs of the crowd, a voice rose—jagged, slurred, and thick with a desperate, localized rage.
Catharine's breath hitched. She didn't just freeze; she seemed to shrink into the leather bucket seat of the R8.
"Wait here," Jake said, his voice dropping into a low, protective tone. "Keep the doors locked. I'll see what's going on."
