The shack smelled of damp wood, cheap cigars, and the kind of misery only criminals and drifters carried in their bones.Jeremiah slid into his usual seat, ignoring the leering men and their hollow laughter. This was where the lowest of society gathered—the desperate, the reckless, the ones who had nothing to lose. And yet, sitting in the farthest, darkest corner, was the Whisperer.He looked exactly as he did last time—stooped, twitchy, and mildly amused by the world around him. He was nursing a small glass of something amber-colored, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against the table.Jeremiah didn’t bother with pleasantries. He threw a thick envelope onto the table.“For your troubles.”The Whisperer barely glanced at it. “You don’t waste time, X.”“No, I don’t. Have they left?”The Whisperer sighed, finally pocketing the envelope. “The Arabs? Most of them, yes. But not all. There are always one or two idiots who think they can slip through cracks that don’t exist.”Jeremiah c
Last Updated : 2025-09-03 Read more