The night was heavy, the kind that sticks to your skin like cheap bourbon. I’d been tailing this bird for years — the Maltese Falcon.
Some say it’s gold. Others say it’s salvation.
In Atlanta, they just call it “hope.”
Bijan runs like he’s got the devil at his heels.
London? Smooth operator, always open, never talking.
Together they’re supposed to crack the case — bring the city what it’s been missing since the last alibi wore thin.
But I’ve seen this picture before.
Fourth quarters turn sour. Leads slip away like dames in the night.
And the Falcon? Still just out of reach.
🕵️♂️ Another season, another mystery.
The only question is…
will this bird finally sing, or is it just another shadow in the smoke?