The mist had thinned, leaving behind a damp stillness that clung to the streets of Singapore like a second skin.
Jagger walked alone.
Water dripped steadily from rooftops and broken signboards, collecting in shallow puddles that reflected the dim glow of flickering streetlights. The earlier chaos had faded, replaced by an eerie quiet that felt unnatural, as if the city itself were holding its breath. The stench of blood and rot still lingered faintly in the air, though the rain had washed most of it into the drains. Abandoned cars sat crooked along the roadside, doors left ajar, windshields shattered. A plastic bag skittered across the pavement, dragged by a weak gust of wind that echoed hollowly between the buildings.
Each step Jagger took sounded louder than it should have.
