It is about 65F(18C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Madison/span

(Your target has been abducted by the syndicate for potential sale offworld, they must escape or stall their abductors long enough for their allies to be able to come rescue them before the transaction can take place.
)

Luka patrols the streets of Aruora heights, hands stuff in his pockets, Dio Flamingo walking like he owns the place. He slows down as a woman walks past, tracking her as his head swivels to keep tracked on her, fixing her with an intense look … The woman hustles on, looking quite uncomfortable …

Without warning, a bag is yanked over Luka’s head, muffling his mouth just as the cold kiss of silver burns through his veins. A sedative follows, gentle as poison, dragging him down into blackness. When he wakes, it’s in the stereotypical ironrot chair: rusted, squealing, and cruel. A silver collar clamps tight around his neck, and his wrists are chained behind his back, manacled in the same burning metal. Before him stands an older man, cane tapping once against the floor. His voice cracks the silence: dry, haggard, and foul with that unmistakable scent of filth and overused designer cologne. He’s decked out in gaudy Armani and gold; so much gold Trump might drop to his knees for it. “Ah, good. You’re awake, Mister Fairfang.” The man runs a trembling hand through his greased-over gray comb-over, a pitiful disguise for baldness, “Not much of an Alpha, are we? Bit more of a Beta, hmm? No matter. We’ll make a sale of you yet.” He hacks a laugh, high-pitched and teetering on madness, then hobbles toward the door. As he reaches it, he pauses, jabbing his cane in Lukas direction, “You stay and be a good boy now, you hear?” The laugh returns: sharper this time, like nails dragged down a chalkboard, before the heavy steel door slams shut, leaving Luka alone in the stale air and silence.

His eyes slowly opening up, Luka winces as he feels the burn of the silver around his neck “Fucker, this is the second time this week …” Luka groans out, looking down at the chair he was in, testing his wrists behind him with another wince. “Don’t you guys ever get tired of watching me make my glorious escapes?” Luka asks the man as he leaves. “Poncy prick …” Luka grunts under his breath once the man is gone, starting to glance around the room to pick up any details he hadn’t picked up about it the first time around when he’d just woken up, anything at all in the room that might help him put together an escape …

Nothing answers. No footfalls, no voicesjust the thick, choking quiet of solitude. Luka remains slumped in the rusted chair, silver burning slow through his veins, the sedatives still fogging his mind. As the minutes crawl, his head lulls backnot from fear, not quitebut pain, boredom, maybe both. Above, a ceiling fan spins. Large. Obnoxiously slow. Around and around.

His eyes blink a few times: dry, heavy, until he notices something wrong. The blades twitch, then jerk, then spin with erratic bursts before stalling altogether. Silence. And then: a black nylon rope slithers down from the ceiling, coiling like a snake before a figure descends with eerie grace.

Leon. Reclining into view like some myth made flesh, the figure drops with effortless calmstoic and composed. Keen blue eyes, tousled blond hair, and that bomber-style jacket framing his face like a movie still. Action hero, nailed.

Booted feet touch down with a soft pitter-patter. He doesnt say much, he never does, but he comes up behind Luka, that faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, “You can’t lose for trying, huh?”

Squinting his eyes and tensing and untensing his toes as hard as he could to try and keep his circulation going, or at the very least remain conscious, Luka looks groggily up as he hears the descent of Leon traveling down into the room. “Leon, old buddy, old pal” Luka greets the man with a weak smirk “Man am I glad to see you. Help me out of here, will ya?” Luka asks the man, flicking the top of his head over to the silver coils around his wrists

Leon gives Luka a silent nod. Classic him: cool as ice even when the heat’s turned up. The pain returns for a breath, the silver still singing in Luka’s blood, but then it fades a sudden wash of relief follows as the bindings fall away, metal clattering dully to the floor.

Luka collapses, sprawling hard: freedom never felt so humbling.

Leon moves like a shadow, already posted up against the nearest wall, pistol in hand, muzzle aimed at the ceiling. That calm, even voice cuts through the silence, “I’ll cover you. Shimmy up the rope, bike’s waiting outside.”

He glances toward the ceiling, adding with a slow blink, “This place is under a warehouse in Providence. Aurora Heights. Didn’t think the Syndicate had a base here.”

It’s the most Luka’s probably ever heard him speak in one go. Turns out: he does have thoughts, just saves them for when it matters.

Luka looks up at the rope, squinting at it as if it had made some colorful remarks regarding his mother. “Aurora Heights? Shit.” Luka tells Leon before he does his best to start climbing up it. It’s a slow process, his body still exhausted from the prolonged exposure to silver, but he’s making steady progress. “Probably not the syndicate, Leon” Luka remarks to Leon as he climbs “The Board Room have been after the Howlers for a while. Alphonse in particular”

Leon meets Luka’s gaze with a silent nod, a mutual understanding exchanged in a heartbeat. Then, one fingerless gloved digit to his lips. Quiet. Footsteps echo beyond the door, measured, deliberate. Someone’s coming.

Leon hunkers down low, slipping a gas mask over his face with practiced ease. He flashes Luka a thumbs up, casual, almost smug, just as the heavy door begins to groan open.

A sickly yellow cloud floods into the room, thick and nauseating, crawling like a nausating stench. It clings to the walls. To the lungs. To time itself. Luka better climb, fast.

Beyond the haze, muffled sounds: movement, a scuffle, a short struggle. Then stillness. Who won? Dealer’s choice.

With no gas mask of his own, Luka would be forced to leave all the cool shit to Leon as he continues climbing up the rope. As he reaches the top, no less than four wolf snouts would point in through the opening greet him. Pulling himself up into a sit on the opening that the rope was going down, cackles happily as he opens up his arms to welcome the wolves as they all pounce happily on him, licking and nuzzling the man “Little late guys, but we appreciate the energy” Luka praises the group before looking back down the entryway, squinting his eyes at the mist. “Hold on before we leave though … We gotta make sure Leon’s right behind us” He says, having no doubt whatsoever that Leon would be quickly on his way out …

In true action hero fashion, a hand bursts up from beneath the swarm of Howlers, gloved in worn, fingerless leather. For a beat, its unclear who it belongs to, until the silhouette and swagger give it away. It’s Leon. He pulls himself up with fluid grace, moving like someone who treats gravity more as a guideline than a rule. Parkour could be his middle name, probably is.

Landing on his feet, Leon takes a moment to brush off the dust, casually slipping his gas mask into a hidden pouch in his medical bag. He glances around, blue eyes sharp, voice cool and unbothered, “Looks like your gang’s here,” he remarks with dry amusement. “Good. Glad I could help. Keep me posted.”

A beat. Then a two-fingered salute, “I’m gonna poke around. See you later, Luka.” And just like that he’s off. Rounds the corner. Gone. Batman style.

Luka gives Leon a salute as he disappears off into the night!