The skies above Santos City remained unnaturally dark. Heavy clouds blanketed the skyline like a curtain refusing to rise.
Don's Mustang prowled down the nearly deserted street toward the strip club. The neighborhood hadn't improved from the last time he saw it—if anything, it looked worse in daylight.
Buildings leaned into each other like tired old men, windows patched with tape and makeshift plywood. Paint peeled off in long strips. A few cracked windows had faces pressed against them, shadows watching as the Mustang crept by.
Inside the car, Winter's gaze tracked the buildings with mechanical precision. Her head turned slowly, her expression unchanging.
"We are being watched," she said flatly. "There is a 63% chance of attempted robbery or car damage within the next hour if parked. However, should your identity be confirmed, the odds drop to zero—unless the attackers are desperate and suicidal."
She blinked once.
