Rourke stepped into the dim room, greeted by flickering candlelight and a low hum of dread. The patrons, a mix of socialites and shadowy regulars, whispered from behind crimson curtains. The club's owner, pale and sweating, swore the woman was laughing just minutes before she was found. Rourke's instincts prickled-this wasn't just a murder. This was a message. A performance, staged with eerie precision. As he surveyed the scene, a familiar jazz tune played softly over the speakers-one he hadn't heard since his days undercover. And just like that, the past he'd buried started to play again.
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