The rain in Chicago always smelled like old metal and sad days. It came down in long, cold lines and made the streets shine under the yellow lights. Water ran along the broken sidewalks and collected in dark pools near the drains. The air felt heavy, like it carried old stories no one wanted to tell anymore.

Elena Voss stood under the weak light of a closed bookstore. The neon sign above the door had been broken for weeks. It flickered once when she first arrived, then went dark and stayed dark. She pulled her coat tighter around her body. The fabric was damp at the shoulders. Her cigarette burned slowly between her fingers. The smoke rose in thin gray curls and disappeared into the rain.