Constantine, clad in his trademark black cloak, melted into the shadows of Stonegate's labyrinthine streets. He followed the wounded assassin, their movements swift and silent. The assassin, his face still masked by the remnants of his cloak, clutched his throbbing jaw, a testament to Viktor's earlier intervention.
Their chase led them through deserted alleys and bustling marketplaces, the cacophony of the city a strange counterpoint to the silent predator and prey dance they performed. Finally, the assassin reached a dilapidated building on the city's outskirts. He slipped through a hidden doorway, disappearing into the gloom.
Constantine, taking a deep breath, activated his own cloaking device and followed. Inside, the air hung thick with dust and the stench of mildew. Cobwebs draped precariously from the crumbling ceiling, casting grotesque shapes in the dim moonlight filtering through a boarded-up window.