The Robbery. Crime Story Book Series, #30

The city never truly sleeps. ? Its pulse hums beneath the surface, a rhythm of footsteps, engines, and whispers that echo through alleys and high-rises alike. ? Tonight, the air is thick with the scent of rain, the streets slick with its residue, reflecting the fractured glow of streetlights. ? Somewhere, a siren wails, distant but insistent, a reminder that the night is never quiet for long. ? In a dimly lit room, a man sits alone, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of a flickering neon sign outside the window.
His hands rest on the table, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate beat. The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should, each second stretching into eternity. He doesn't look at it. ? He doesn't need to. Time has already betrayed him. ? A shadow moves across the room, and the man stiffens. ? The door creaks open, and two figures step inside, their faces obscured by the harsh overhead light. ? One carries a folder, thick and worn, its edges frayed from too many hands.
The other holds a cup of coffee, steam curling upward like smoke from a dying fire. The man doesn't speak. ? He knows better. ? Words are weapons here, and he's already unarmed. ?The taller figure drops the folder onto the table with a dull thud. "Let's start from the beginning, " she says, her voice smooth but heavy, like a blade sliding from its sheath.?The man exhales, his breath shaky, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears.
? He tries to remember the beginning, but all he can see is the end. ?