The storm hadn't eased by nightfall, and the streets of Greystone Alley were slick with rain and scattered neon reflections. The old club at the end of the alley loomed like a decaying skeleton, its sign barely clinging to the facade, letters flickering like a dying heartbeat.
Hazel tugged her jacket tighter, the cold biting through the fabric. She wasn't sure if it was the storm or the anticipation crawling under her skin.
Michael stood beside her, dressed in black, his gun holstered at his side, eyes sharp. Connor waited nearby with two more of their men, scanning the shadows.
"You sure about this?" Connor murmured.
Michael didn't look away from the building. "I'm done letting Crowe dictate the game."
Hazel slid a hand into Michael's. "Then let's burn it down."
They moved swiftly, the group fanning out through the alley. Connor's team took the back while Michael and Hazel slipped in through a side door.
The club's insides were a ruin of shattered glass, broken furniture, and walls stained by time and forgotten sins. The air reeked of mold and old whiskey. Hazel's pulse thudded in her ears as they made their way down a dark hallway.
"Stay close," Michael murmured, his grip firm on her hand.
A crash echoed from deeper inside — the unmistakable sound of someone moving. Hazel's heart seized.
Connor's voice crackled through the earpiece.
"Movement on the lower level. At least four hostiles."
Michael's lips curved into a dangerous smirk.
"Let's say hello."
They moved like shadows, silent and lethal. Hazel kept close to Michael's back, gun in hand, nerves coiled but steady. She wasn't the scared girl from weeks ago. She was a Graze now.
They reached the staircase leading to the basement. Faint light glimmered below.
Michael gestured to Connor through the comms, then turned to Hazel. "Whatever happens, don't hesitate."
"I won't," she promised, meeting his gaze.
They descended.
The basement opened into what must've once been a VIP lounge — now a makeshift command center. Maps of the city covered the walls. Photos of Michael, Hazel, and their team marked with crude red Xs. And at the center, a single man stood with his back to them.
"About time you showed up," the man drawled.
Hazel's breath caught. She knew that voice.
Liam Crowe turned, his face older but every bit as menacing as Michael had described. That jagged scar along his jaw, those cold, calculating eyes.
"Been a while, kid," Liam smirked at Michael. "And you—" his gaze shifted to Hazel, a twisted grin forming, "—you're even prettier up close."
Hazel's stomach twisted, but she held her ground.
Michael raised his gun. "Game's over, Liam."
Crowe laughed, low and unbothered. "Oh, I don't think so."
A sudden crash behind them — two of Liam's men lunged from the shadows. Connor's voice shouted through the comms. Gunfire erupted.
Hazel fired instinctively, adrenaline surging. One of Liam's men dropped. The other tackled Michael, the two men slamming into a table.
Hazel's pulse hammered as she faced Liam, gun trained on his chest.
"Don't move," she snapped.
But Liam only smiled.
"I was hoping it'd be you."
And then the lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed them whole.....