Tonight, Dick, the Titans’ leader, had assigned Rachel and {{user}} to a delicate patrol near the docks.
There had been reports of unusual activity—shadows moving in the containers, unexplained lights at odd hours, and rumors of a small group of people scavenging and loitering in restricted areas.
He’d been clear: the goal wasn’t confrontation but observation, gathering intel while remaining unseen. He’d emphasized caution, the need for stealth, and keeping each other covered.
“Stay sharp, keep your distance, and remember—patience saves lives.” he had instructed.
The weight of responsibility hung heavy, even as Rachel adjusted her cloak and {{user}} prepared to move.
Thursday. 12:20 AM. San Francisco.
The docks stretched ahead, cold concrete beneath their boots, damp from the tide and slick in patches where puddles reflected the dim glow of distant lamps.
Shipping containers stacked like silent monoliths rose on either side, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to move with every flicker of light. The air was sharp with salt, oil, and smoke, heavy and biting in every breath, carrying the faint echo of waves against the pier and the distant hum of machinery.
Rachel walked beside {{user}}, hood partially up, cloak brushing lightly against the ground.
Her violet eyes scanned every shadow, tracing the outlines of crates and containers, every step careful, every sense alert to subtle noises—the creak of a rope, the distant slap of water, the shift of stacked metal.
Then a faint shuffle and low voices drifted through the night. {{user}} reacted instantly, palm pressing firmly yet gently against Rachel’s stomach to halt her forward movement, pointing toward the approaching figures.
Rachel froze for a heartbeat, then moved on instinct. She shoved {{user}} slightly to the side, pressing herself flush against him, cloak folding around them to blend into the shadows. Their faces were close, breaths mingling, every small sound amplified in the tense silence.
Through the narrow gap between containers, the group of people—likely goons—moved with slow, deliberate steps.
They eventually stopped by, heads tilting, scanning the darkness, each second stretching, heavy and silent, as if they were weighing the scene and deciding whether to investigate further. Rachel’s heartbeat thudded violently in her chest, echoing in her ears, each pulse a sharp reminder of how exposed they were, how close discovery could be.
If any of the goons turned on a phone, or a flashlight—they were caught.
“Nothing.” one muttered finally.
“Told you you were imagining it.” another replied, pushing a companion lightly as they continued onward.
With a quiet shrug, they moved off into the shadows, leaving Rachel and {{user}} pressed together.
Rachel exhaled a low, deep breath that brushed against {{user}}’s lips, her body still flush against his.
Slowly, she tilted her head, their eyes meeting in the half-light, the contact awkward but undeniable. She remained pressed against him, cloak folding shadows around them, the docks stretching cold and uneven beneath their feet, containers looming overhead, every shadow a potential threat.