The wind from the river carried the scent of rust and dried blood. Dock 9, on the southern edge of the city, was pitch black, forgotten by time. An armored truck sat still beside a rusting container. Six armed men stood around it like live chess pieces. Everything was arranged for a "transaction"—quick, clean, and without error.
From the shadows, Hermes emerged.
No one saw how he arrived. No car. No footsteps. He simply appeared. A long grey coat draped over him, collar turned up high, obscuring half his face. Under the dim yellow light from an old crane overhead, his eyes glinted with cold detachment.
> "Who the fuck are you?" one of the guards growled, an MP5 leveled at Hermes's chest.
Hermes didn't answer. He only raised his head slightly, eyes scanning the scene: positions of the shooters, the distance to the truck, the open container—and the silver briefcase laid between them.
The center of the board.
> "The case is mine," he said, voice calm, mechanical.
> "You're not on the list," the large man took a step forward.
Still, Hermes didn't move. But something in the air shifted—something off. Not from his words, but from the unnatural silence that surrounded him. As if, with a single signal, the entire dock would ignite.
> "Your list became obsolete three hours ago."
He raised his left hand and tossed a small device forward.
A burner phone hit the ground, screen still lit:
[Transfer Complete: $8,000,000 – Account Cleared]
The leader glanced at it—his face froze. The guards tightened their grips on their weapons.
> "What did you do to my inside man?" he asked.
Hermes didn't reply at once. He crouched, lifted the silver briefcase. No one dared pull the trigger. Not because they feared death—but because none of them were sure who would die first if they did.
> "He's alive," Hermes said. "But he no longer belongs to you."
He turned away, walking slowly out of the dock zone like someone who had only borrowed the place—for the opening of a match. Not a single gun fired. Not a single man moved. Only the wind remained, thick with the stench of fear and silence.
---
Rooftop of a nearby warehouse:
A lone figure crouched beside a rusted chimney, watching through thermal scope.
> "Not a single breath out of rhythm... It's him." – The voice was low, like whispering to the dark.
The figure clicked on a radio, speaking softly:
> "Echo. Confirmed. Hermes is back."