EPILOGUE
Nightfall draped the city in a cloak of menacing darkness, the sky a tumultuous sea of clouds brewing a tempest. The air was heavy, pregnant with the scent of impending rain, the kind that threatened to sweep away evidence and memory alike. Morgan approached the pier, her jaw set firm against the biting wind that carried the cries of seagulls like lost souls.
The pier loomed ahead, a desolate finger stretching out into the abyss of the restless water below. The churning black waves mirrored the turmoil in Morgan's mind, reflecting the storm clouds overhead in a dark dance. She moved with purpose, her boots thumping a steady rhythm on the damp wooden planks as she advanced towards her uncertain rendezvous.
Around her, the rigging of moored boats sung a haunting melody, chords strung by the gales that funneled between vessels. It was a fitting soundtrack to the uncertainty that lay ahead—an eerie chorus to accompany the macabre theatre of the night.
Morgan paused at the edge, her gaze sweeping across the expanse of murky depths. She knew the risks; the stakes had never been higher. Yet, determination steeled her resolve, the need for answers—for justice—a flame that not even the coming storm could extinguish. Tonight was about more than vengeance; it was about unraveling a tapestry woven with the threads of corruption and deceit, a narrative that had ensnared her life in its cruel pattern.
As she waited, the first drops of rain began to fall, smattering against the wood with the softness of a whisper before crescendoing into a torrential downpour. They were the tears of the city, weeping for the sins committed in its shadowed corners. For Morgan Cross, they were the prelude to revelation or ruin.
Morgan's footsteps ceased as she caught sight of Thomas. He was a specter in the gloom, his outline barely distinguishable against the dark backdrop of the pier. She approached with caution, her hand resting near the firearm strapped to her hip—a habit forged from years of betrayal and danger. Thomas stood with that same nonchalance he always wore like a second skin, but as Morgan drew closer, she spotted the telltale signs of strain around his eyes. The usual smirk that played on his lips had vanished, replaced by a hard line of urgency.
"Thomas," she called out, her voice cutting through the silence between them. "What's this about Cordell?"
She didn't miss the flicker of something akin to fear in his gaze before he masked it with his typical indifference. He took a step forward, ready to speak, but the tranquility of the moment was brutally torn asunder.
The gunshot was a physical force, a sonic boom that resonated through the very bones of the pier. Morgan instinctively dropped into a crouch, her training kicking in as she scanned for the shooter, for any hint of movement in the darkness. Her ears rang with the echo of the shot, her breaths short and sharp in the aftermath.
Thomas reeled, his body language shifting from relaxed to shocked in an instant. His hands went to his chest, clawing at the fabric of his shirt, now blooming with a spreading crimson stain. Morgan's heart hammered against her ribs, every agent instinct screaming at her to act, to save him, to do something.
"Thomas!" Her voice was a mix of anger and dread as she saw him stagger, his silhouette wavering against the stormy sky. He was a man betrayed by his own body, struggling to maintain balance on the precipice that separated life from death.
This was not how it was supposed to go. This meeting was meant to be a turning point, a chance to peel back the layers of lies and deceit that Richard Cordell had wrapped around their lives. But as Thomas struggled, the truth seemed to slip further away, carried off by the wind and the waves below.
Her gaze locked onto his, a silent plea for him to fight, to hang on, to not give in to the void that yawned beneath him. Thomas's eyes met hers, a flash of regret passing between them—a shared history of manipulation and mistrust culminating in this single, disastrous moment. And then, as if time itself had slowed, she watched helplessly as the life drained from him, his body succumbing to the inevitable pull of gravity and mortality.
Morgan's hand shot out, her fingers grasping at the empty air where Thomas had just stood. But it was too late. His body crumpled under the weight of the bullet, a rag doll silhouette against the lightning-streaked sky.
With a sickening splash, he disappeared into the dark, churning water below.