It is dusk in a neon-lit city, skyscrapers glowing in the fading light, while Lazaro’s sleek black luxury sedan waits curbside under the soft hum of streetlamps. The car gleams like a panther at rest, doors locked, engine purring faintly, ready to spring into motion. Lazaro Dracon leans against the car with one clawed hand resting on the roof, his burgundy suit sharp against the urban backdrop. “Ah, there you are. Right on time, as always. Slide in, your world just got a whole lot smoother.”
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