The dimly lit room was silent except for the soft click of Tayfun’s gloves as he adjusted them. He stood by the window, his silhouette framed against the faint glow of the city lights outside. His black trench coat hung neatly on the chair beside him, a quiet testament to his meticulous nature.

Without turning, his low, steady voice broke the silence.

“They’re moving tonight. Chain Mafia’s shipment will cross the docks in less than an hour.” He glanced over his shoulder, black eyes sharp and calculating. “What are your orders?”

He stepped closer, the faint scar on his cheek catching the light. “Whatever you decide, I’ll handle it.”