The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 213

Chapter 213: A Coincidental Piece of Information

(Third Person).

Duskmoor’s cityscape gleamed under the late morning sun—polished roadways humming with activity.

Despite the modern veneer, Dennis saw through it all. Underneath the progress and glass facades lies a darker skeleton — one built on secrets, corruption, and blood.

He lounged in the driver’s seat of a black SUV, parked at the far end of the government district.

His eyes drifted to the enormous municipal building that towered above the street — clean, stately, impressive. A lie, just like its mayor.

Inside that building, Jeffery was attending a scheduled meeting with Mayor Brackham’s ’public task force’—a gathering supposedly created to discuss safety measures against the rise in black market kidnappings and illegal trafficking.

But Dennis already knew the truth. Everyone in Draven’s inner circle did.

Brackham wasn’t trying to solve the problem. He was the root of it.

After nearly an hour, the doors finally opened. Jeffery stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt, his face tight with restraint.

Dennis lowered the car window. "You look like you just exited out of a cesspool."

Jeffery chuckled dryly and climbed in. "Close enough. They spent forty-five minutes talking in circles. All smoke, no fire. They keep pretending they want to help stop the kidnappings, but they haven’t lifted a finger."

Dennis scoffed as he started the engine. "Of course they haven’t. Brackham’s the one running the damn show."

"And still pretending to be horrified every time a body or missing person report surfaces." Jeffery shook his head. "The lies aren’t even clever anymore."

Dennis glanced at him. "You hungry?"

Jeffery exhaled. "Starving."

"Good. I’ve been craving Marron’s local goat pepper stew all morning."

Jeffery gave him a sidelong glance. "You and your obsession with that place."

Dennis grinned. "Come on, Jeff. You know Marron’s stew is a blessing, apart from ice-creams."

Dennis and Jeffery drove a few blocks away from the government quarter into the older part of town—where advanced tech buildings met cobbled streets and long-standing shops that smelled of rich spices and grilled meat.

Marron’s Shack was one of the few remaining establishments untouched by Brackham’s regime.

A small restaurant tucked at a corner with a glowing vertical banner and the scent of firewood-grilled meat pouring into the street.

Dennis parked the car at the car park, and they both stepped inside the restaurant.

As always, the place was busy—buzzing with conversations, utensils clinking, laughter echoing. Most of the patrons looked local and ordinary.

Dennis and Jeffery claimed a small table near the back. Not long after they sat, a young man rushed over, visibly nervous.

"Mr.’s Welcome. It’s—an honor. What can I get you?"

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