Chapter 18
The Rival's Endgame
The city held its breath, a fevered exhalation in the humid night air. It was a familiar tension, the kind that settled in your bones like damp rot, promising a storm. But this wasn’t just any storm; this was the one I’d been bracing for, the culmination of a thousand tiny skirmishes, a hundred whispered threats, a lifetime of looking over my shoulder. Vicious. The name itself was a promise of pain, a snarling dog straining at its leash, and tonight, that leash was snapping.
The usual thrum of the streets felt muted, the sirens a little too distant, the laughter from the corner bar a touch too hollow. It was the quiet before the true madness. I sat in my usual booth at the back of the club, the bass vibrating through the worn leather, a lukewarm Hennessy in my hand. Jazzy was across from me, her eyes, usually so sharp and alive, were shadowed, a flicker of unease dancing within their depths. She knew what was coming, too. We all did.
"He's making his move, Blue," she said, her voice low, barely audible above the music. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a nervous habit I’d come to recognize.
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