The night hung over the harbor like an oil-stained blanket, heavy and suffocating. The air was thick and humid, carrying the stench of fish, rotting wood, diesel, and some indefinable decay of organic matter. This was the city's crease, the shadowed underbelly behind the glittering façade. Fishing boats and freighters huddled side by side along the dock, their blackened hulls rising and falling with the greasy water. The ropes groaned with every sway, like exhausted sighs.
John Crecy moved through the gloom. He had shed the conspicuous tactical gear, wearing only a dark, worn jacket zipped up to his chin. Yet the tension forged on the battlefield remained—his eyes scanned the environment like a hawk. Among the dockworkers trudging along, bowed by life, and the drunken sailors staggering past, he was a predator who had entered the flock. Though he had restrained his claws, the sense of danger radiated silently from him.
Neon lights flickered on a distant street, making the shadows here seem even darker. From a dilapidated bar came raucous music and slurred chatter, dim yellow light illuminating faces that were either numb or contorted with harshness.
His target was clear. In a place like this, there were always informants, people who would sell any secret for the right price. He needed a chart, coordinates, a name—"Hope's Wing," or, more commonly, its infamous alias.
He pushed open a door that looked ready to collapse. A wave of stifling heat and noise hit him instantly. Tobacco, cheap beer, sweat, and spoiled food mingled into an almost suffocating haze. Several men in dirty overalls crowded around a pool table, shouting. A few scattered patrons sat at the bar, eyes darting nervously.
The bartender was a burly, balding man, his apron faded beyond recognition, vigorously rubbing a glass.
John slid into a shadowed corner of the bar. The bartender glanced at him lazily, without moving immediately.
John pulled a few crumpled bills from his jacket pocket and pushed them forward. Not much, but enough to buy the cheapest whiskey—and a little attention.
The bartender moved slowly, took the money, and poured a murky drink, sliding the glass toward John. Fingerprints lined its rim.
"Whatcha having?" The bartender's voice was hoarse, perfunctory.
John didn't touch the drink. He lifted his eyes, calm, but the look made the seasoned bartender uneasy. No drunkenness, no confusion—only a bottomless coldness.
"Looking for someone," John said quietly, yet the words pierced through the bar's chaos.
The bartender slowed his movements, a flicker of caution crossing his eyes. "Where? I only sell drinks."
"An island. East side. Private. Maybe called 'Hope's Wing,' or… other names." John's voice was flat, like stating a fact.
The bartender's face twitched. He glanced around the bar, then lowered his voice: "Never heard of it. That's not something people like us should ask about." He began to turn away.
John's hand shot out like lightning—not to strike, but to press down on the bills the bartender was about to take. His thick knuckles, scarred and rough, applied just enough force to communicate 'don't refuse,' without escalating into violence.
"Maybe you know someone… a sailor? Someone with connections," John added, sliding larger bills atop the first stack. His gaze never left the bartender.
Sometimes, the weight of money is sharper than a blade.
The bartender's Adam's apple moved nervously. His eyes flicked between the bills and John's cold face. Greed and fear wrestled inside him. In the end, greed—tempered by the unspoken threat—won.
He snatched up the bills, whispering almost inaudibly: "…Go find 'Crippled' Buddy. Usually by West Dock 3, near his old supply ship, the Seashell. Occasionally delivers 'special' goods over there. But keep your mouth shut, don't say it came from me."
John released his hold.
"Seashell. Buddy," he repeated, committing it like coordinates.
The bartender nodded sharply and turned to tend other patrons, as if John carried a plague.
John rose, leaving the cheap whiskey untouched. He stepped back into the harbor night, leaving the noise and stench behind. The sea breeze carried a chill, washing some of the filth from his nostrils.
West Dock 3 was worse—dilapidated, sparsely lit. Small boats bumped hollowly against the pier. Soon, he spotted the small freighter named Seashell, old and peeling, reeking of fish and rust. A squat figure leaned against a mooring post, smoking, the tip of his cigarette blinking in the darkness.
John approached. The man raised his head, alert. His face was etched with wind and alcohol, one eye clouded, the other sharp and wary. One leg crooked—hence the nickname "Crippled."
"Buddy?" John asked.
The old man squinted, studying him, exhaling thick smoke. "Who wants to know?"
"Someone looking for passage."
"This ain't a passenger ship," Buddy sneered, turning away.
John didn't waste words. He pulled out a thick stack of cash, enough to match multiple short trips' worth of income. The green bills glimmered with irresistible promise in the dim light.
Buddy's gaze locked instantly. He forgot to inhale smoke. Breathing quickened. His good eye flickered with panic. He knew where John wanted to go—and what that meant.
"…Where to?" His voice was dry, a hollow question.
"East. Private island. Alcott family's place." John's voice stayed even, the money swaying lightly between his fingers.
Buddy's face went pale. He stumbled back half a step, nearly tripping over his crooked leg. "You… you're insane! That place… can't go! No amount of money!" Fear crushed greed.
John simply watched, expression unchanged. Slowly, he returned the money to his pocket.
Then he stepped forward.
No shouting, no threat—just that single step. The suffocating, cold, battlefield-honed aura of killing intent radiated like a tangible force, wrapping Buddy completely. John's frame wasn't huge, yet in shadow, he loomed like a mountain poised to fall.
Buddy's breathing halted. His eye filled with pure terror, worse than any storm at sea. Teeth chattered, and he could almost hear his own heart hammering. He'd seen tough guys in the docks, but never this… inhuman chill. As if his neck could snap silently at any second.
"…They… call it… Loli… Loli Island…" Buddy's broken voice quivered, almost crying. "East… thirty nautical miles… there's… a navigational buoy… outsiders can't approach… patrol boats…"
John said nothing, just watched.
Unable to endure, Buddy rushed his words like spilled beans: "…Tonight! Tonight there's a big gathering… lots… lots of VIP yachts… security's tighter… but… my Seashell… four a.m.… delivering the last batch of fresh supplies and… some 'special items'… last shipment… next few days weather won't allow any ship to approach…"
He finished, trembling like leaves in the autumn wind, almost collapsing.
John had what he wanted: the coordinates, the time, the method.
He gave Buddy a glance that froze him. Then John took a few bills from the stack—not as many as before—and pressed them into Buddy's shaking hands.
"Buy your silence," John said softly, voice colder than the sea wind.
With that, he vanished into the dock's deeper shadows, as if he had never been there.
Buddy collapsed onto the cold pier, clutching the lifesaving bills, gasping for air, sweat soaking his worn clothes.
He knew something utterly terrifying was about to happen.