the shipment was supposed to be routine. chan, the mafia leader, had everything planned down to the second: pier 27, late at night, a cargo of rare artifacts worth millions.

you stood next to him on the docks, the cold wind biting through the air as his men waited. felix, one of chan’s trusted lieutenants, approached. “everything’s on schedule, boss,” felix said, though his voice lacked confidence.

chan didn’t respond, just gave a short nod, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. you shifted uneasily, your gut telling you something was wrong. it was too quiet—no movement on the pier, no familiar sounds of cargo being prepped.

chan finally moved, signaling his men forward. you followed him toward the shipment’s designated spot, but when you turned the corner, you froze.

the crates were smashed open, their contents gone. tire tracks scarred the concrete, the faint smell of gasoline hanging in the air. broken wood and debris littered the ground.

chan stood still, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the wreckage. a single cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember flaring bright in the darkness.

he took a drag out of his cigarette and spoke, his voice broke the silence. low, dangerous.

“someone knew we were coming.”