The rain poured over Blackridge like a relentless curtain, muting the city's usual cacophony of horns, shouts, and distant gunfire. Neon signs flickered in the distance, their garish colors bleeding into the puddles that pooled on the cracked sidewalks, creating distorted reflections that seemed to writhe with secrets. Charles stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, shirtless, a glass of whiskey in his hand, its amber contents catching the faint glow of the city below. His eyes weren't on the skyline, though—they were searching deeper, as if he could pierce the veil of lights and shadows to uncover the truth lurking beneath.