The city had a pulse — and tonight, it beat for Hazel Graze.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of District 7, an unmarked van pulled up to a crumbling warehouse. Inside, flickering lights cast jagged shadows against the walls, and a dozen figures gathered around a long steel table. On it, a single photograph lay under a dagger's point.
Hazel Graze's face, smirking like she owned the world.
"Who is she to take Crowe's seat?" a voice spat.
"She's dangerous," another muttered. "Michael's shadow? Fine. But now she's sitting on the throne."
A man stepped forward — clean-shaven, dark hair slicked back, the kind of face you wouldn't remember even if you stared straight at it.
"She's not just dangerous," he murmured, plucking the photo off the table. "She's untouchable."
He turned the photo over.
A red mark was scrawled there.
Marked for death.
Meanwhile — At the Graze Penthouse
Hazel lay sprawled across the rooftop lounge, a book in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other. The skyline glittered like spilled jewels, and the city's noise was a lullaby she didn't know she'd missed.
Michael appeared from the stairwell, a rare, easy smile tugging at his lips. "You look like you're plotting something."
Hazel grinned without looking up. "A coup. Or maybe what to name my next cat."
Michael dropped onto the lounge beside her. "Hazel."
She closed the book. "Alright, fine. What's wrong?"
He handed her a manila folder. "Connor intercepted chatter. There's a hit list."
Hazel flipped it open. Her own face stared back. A crude 'X' marked her forehead.
She tilted her head. "Charming."
"Fifty grand for the one who brings your body in."
Hazel's brow arched. "Only fifty? Insulting."
Michael didn't smile this time. "I want you off the streets for a while."
Hazel laughed. "Not happening."
"I'm serious, Hazel."
"So am I."
They locked eyes — the air around them crackling.
Then Hazel's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A single text:
"Pier 9. Midnight. Come alone if you want answers about Benjamin Crane."
Hazel's breath caught.
Benjamin Crane. Her father. Murdered years ago in an alley no one cared about. The only mystery she'd never solved.
Michael noticed the change in her face immediately. "What is it?"
She hesitated.
Then lied. "Nothing important.
The Midnight Meet
Pier 9 was abandoned, except for a single figure waiting by the water. Hazel approached, a pistol strapped beneath her jacket, another in her boot.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden beneath a hood.
"You came," he murmured.
Hazel cocked her head. "Who are you?"
The man stepped forward, dropping something at her feet. A worn leather journal. Familiar.
Hazel's stomach twisted.
"My father's," she whispered.
"Not all debts die with the man," the stranger said. "Your father's sins echo in this city's walls. And you… you're standing on a throne built with his blood."
Hazel's grip tightened on her gun. "Say his name."
The man paused.
"Benjamin Crane."
Hazel's world tilted.
"Who killed him?"
The man smiled beneath the hood. "It wasn't who you think."
Before she could move, he threw a smoke bomb, and the world turned white.
Hazel coughed, eyes stinging, gun raised — but when the smoke cleared, he was gone.
And the journal remained.
Back at the Penthouse
Hazel barged in, covered in dust and ash, heart pounding.
Michael was waiting.
His eyes narrowed. "Where the hell were you?"
Hazel dropped the journal on the table. "Finding ghosts."
Michael opened it. Pages and pages of coded names, blood money transactions, and a final, unmarked entry.
A date.
Tonight.
Hazel swallowed hard. "Something big is coming, Michael."
He reached for her, grounding them both. "Then let them come."
Elsewhere — On a Rooftop
The stranger removed his hood. His face was lean, scarred — and unmistakably familiar.
Roman Crowe.
Alive.
He lit a cigarette, watching the Graze tower.
"Let's see how long you last, little queen," he murmured.
The war was far from over.