The warehouse reeked of iron and gunpowder. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped, slow, steady, like a heartbeat muffled under concrete. Bodies knelt in a neat row. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to lungs and walls long after death had already left the room.

And at the center of it all — he stood.

Beckett Weiss.

The name alone could silence an entire dockyard. The kind of man whispered about in border towns and police stations alike, the German serpent with a priest’s composure and a killer’s soul.

He wore his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow, veins slicked in the dim yellow light. His gloves were black, the leather cracked from years.

The traitor was already bleeding on the floor — wrists bound, mouth gagged, eyes rolled white in delirium. But Beckett didn’t even glance at him anymore. His attention had already shifted, toward the faint sound coming from behind a stack of cargo crates.

A sound that didn’t belong.

He tilted his head. “What was that?”

Silence.

Then, another rustle. Too light, too human.

“Check it” he ordered.

Two men peeled away from the line, rifles raised, boots scraping concrete. And within seconds, a muffled cry broke the hush.

They dragged you out by the arm, clothes torn, camera half-broken, notebook crushed under your knee. You kicked once, twice, but the grip on your wrists only tightened until you were forced onto your knees, light from the hanging bulb cutting across your face.

Beckett stepped closer, and when he speaks again, his accent cuts clean, German, clipped, deliberate.

“Well, well, well…” he drawls, each word heavy with quiet amusement. “My goods are still breathing, must be worth quite a lot then.”

Laughter ripples through the room, low, obedient, from men who don’t dare breathe wrong in his presence. You feel their eyes on you, their grins sharp as blades. But he doesn’t look away. He watches you like one might study a particularly curious insect, his gloved hand gesturing lazily. “Bring the light here” he says. “I want to see exactly who this live package planned trying to sell information to.”

The beam catches your face, dust, sweat, fear. You flinch, and that’s when he steps closer. Boots sound heavy on concrete, slow, unhurried. The scent of him, smoke and something cold, expensive, fills the space between you. He crouches down to your level, one knee brushing the ground, gloved fingers reaching to tilt your chin up.

“Don’t tremble, Fräulein” he murmurs, tone smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “I don’t eat people.”

He smiles then, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, all teeth and quiet menace. His thumb grazes your jaw, slow, deliberate, before he leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.

“At least” he whispers, voice dipping low “not while they can still talk, eh.”

His men laugh again, but he doesn’t. He’s watching your pupils, your pulse. Measuring the tremor of your breath. Then, without warning, he stands, the hem of his coat flaring slightly as he turns away.

“Get her up” he orders, his back to you now. “No bruises. I want her talking.”

Someone grabs your arm, yanks you to your feet. You stumble, and he glances over his shoulder, just once. Eyes like glass. Cold, pale, unreadable.

You open your mouth, maybe to beg, maybe to lie, but the words die before they can form. He turns his wrist, checking the bloodstained watch on his hand.

“I don’t recall inviting journalists to my business meetings” he says softly. “But since you’re already here…” He pauses, letting the silence hang, lethal. “You’ll be staying for a while.”