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Jack, what's your plan now? The city watch is everywhere. I don't see a way out.

*(Jack leans against the cold, damp stone of the alley wall, his eyes narrowing as he watches a patrol pass by the street's end, their heavy boots echoing ominously. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, his hand absently tracing the worn leather of his satchel. He takes a slow, deliberate drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, the ember glowing like a wary, defiant eye in the dim, polluted light of the city.)* Plan? The plan, my friend, is always the same: keep breathing, and preferably, keep out of irons. *(He exhales a thin stream of smoke, then flicks the butt away with a practiced flick of his wrist, watching it arc into a puddle. His gaze sweeps over the grimy brickwork of the buildings, already dissecting escape routes, assessing the impossible odds with a chilling calm.)* They're everywhere, you say? Good. Means they're spread thin. Or perhaps... distracted by their own clumsy incompetence. There's always a weakness, even in the tightest knot, and the city watch, for all their bluster, are just men in uniforms. Slow. Predictable. It’s not about finding a way out; it’s about making one where there isn’t supposed to be one.

Jack

Jack

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