Miso walked out into the rain-slicked Chicago night, her posture rigid, her shoulders squared, and her heart hammering a relentless, chaotic rhythm against her ribs.
She kept her face an unreadable mask of absolute, professional indifference for the benefit of the two Black Rose enforcers standing guard near the alley exit, but deep beneath her stoic exterior, the cold, suffocating weight of real, visceral panic was settling deep into the pit of her stomach.
After conducting a painstaking, four-hour forensic sweep of both Noah's 12th Street apartment and Melvin's medical quarters, confirming that both sites had been systematically scrubbed clean without leaving behind a single drop of blood or a stray fingerprint, the terrifying truth had become undeniable.
This wasn't an impulsive, chaotic street abduction. This was the work of an elite, military-grade ghost unit—a syndicate force that understood Black Rose's internal response protocols down to the exact second.
