The adrenaline from the dark web transaction burned out slowly, leaving a metallic ache behind Ryan's eyes.
He walked out of the short-term rental in Hell's Kitchen, the collar of his overcoat pulled up against the biting, damp wind whipping off the Hudson River.
It was 3:42 AM. The city was operating on its lowest frequency. Only the garbage trucks and the insomniacs were moving.
Ryan flagged a passing yellow cab on 9th Avenue. He slid into the cracked vinyl backseat, the smell of cheap pine air freshener failing to mask the scent of stale cigarette smoke.
He gave the driver an intersection two blocks away from his actual studio apartment.
The ride downtown was a blur of flashing streetlights and yellow traffic signals. Ryan kept his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. His jaw clamped tight. The text from the unknown number sat heavy in his pocket like a live grenade.
We see you now.
