**Whrrrummmm—ch-kch-kch-kch-kch**
The rotors echoed overhead as the city shrank beneath Don and Charles, Santos reduced to a sprawl of blinking lights and clean-cut towers.
The helicopter rose steadily, pulling away from the glass-and-silver sheen of the penthouse building. From this height, even the glitz looked disposable.
Don sat near the open door, one boot resting on the lip of the floor, the other planted firm. His gear was heavy and unfamiliar.
Tactical-grade combat vest, weatherproof black-and-grey fatigues, reinforced gloves—minimalist, clean-cut. The only thing flashy about it was how unflashy it was. No emblems. No color. Just raw utility.
Charles sat across from him, similarly dressed but with his own flair. The cut of his vest was more contoured, almost tailored. His gloves had microfibers stitched into the fingers—tactical, but expensive.
Even the dark scarf wound around his neck felt too stylish for an operation, but somehow didn't look out of place.
