The Shipment Sting.The small, dimly lit room reeked of stale coffee and desperation. A single map lay sprawled across the wooden table, its edges curling from years of use. Silas pressed his hands against it, his fingers tracing the red markings they had made. The dockyard was their battleground, and tonight, they had to win.Eleanor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the map as if she could will it to reveal more secrets. “We’ll need two vantage points,” she murmured, her voice low, calculated. “One by the shipping containers, the other at the main entrance.” If Hartwell’s men get spooked, we need to cut off their escape.”Silas nodded, eyes flickering up to meet hers. “You’ll take the entrance,” he decided. “Wyatt and I will cover the shipment. If we’re right about the timing, Hartwell’s cargo will arrive at midnight.”Wyatt, lounging in the corner, let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of assumptions, mate.” His usual air of smug amusem

Fractured Alliances.The storm outside battered the windows, its fury a perfect match for the tension brewing inside the safe house. The dimly lit room pulsed with frustration, the air thick with unspoken blame.Wyatt slumped onto the battered couch, his shirt sticking to the wound on his side. He exhaled sharply, eyes flickering toward Silas, who was pacing like a lion in a too-small cage."Brilliant," Wyatt muttered, pressing a cloth against his ribs. "Infiltrate the docks, grab the evidence, escape unnoticed. And yet, here we are, empty-handed. Again."Silas stopped mid-step, turning to face him. His expression was taut, controlled, but anger simmered beneath the surface. "We were seconds away. If Crowe hadn’t shown up…."Wyatt scoffed. "If. If. If. We don’t live in a world of ‘ifs,’ Silas. We live in a world where we lost the shipment and damn near got killed in the process."Eleanor, leaning against the wooden table, arms crossed, cut in. "Enough. We made it out alive, and that c

Race Against Time.The streetlights flickered as Silas and Eleanor sprinted through the deserted streets, their breath coming in sharp gasps. The Tribune’s towering structure loomed ahead, its massive stone façade casting deep shadows over the pavement. A sense of foreboding clawed at Eleanor’s chest.They raced up the steps, Silas reaching the door first. He grabbed the brass handle and twisted. Locked.Eleanor pounded against the wood. “James? Are you in there?” Her voice echoed in the still night.No answer.Silas cursed under his breath and glanced around. “We need another way in.”Eleanor’s eyes darted to the side alley. “The fire escape,” she said, already moving.They rushed toward the metal ladder, its rungs slick from the damp night air. Silas climbed first, his body tense, muscles coiled like a predator stalking unseen prey. Eleanor followed, her hands shaking as she hoisted herself onto the second-floor ledge.The office window was ajar.Silas pushed it open and slipped ins

The Weight of Failure.The storm raged outside, rattling the windowpanes of the dimly lit safe house. Rain streaked down the glass in erratic trails, much like the turmoil inside Eleanor’s chest. She sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, shoulders curled inward, her fingers locked together so tightly her knuckles ached.The weight of the journalist’s death pressed down on her, suffocating.Silas stood a few feet away, his hands braced on the back of a chair, his jaw locked. His silence was heavier than any words he could have spoken.Eleanor exhaled sharply, breaking the quiet. “This is my fault.” Her voice cracked under the weight of those words.Silas lifted his gaze, dark and unreadable. “Don’t do that.”She shook her head, eyes burning. “If I had just acted faster….”“You think you could’ve saved him?” Silas snapped, pushing away from the chair. His voice was rough, edged with frustration. “Crowe had men everywhere. They wanted him dead. He was already marked.”Eleanor’s ches

Hartwell’s Game.The air inside the warehouse felt stagnant, thick with something unseen. Silas stood at the edge of the dimly lit space, his gaze locked on Hartwell, who lounged in an old leather chair, the worn upholstery cracking beneath his weight. A brief flicker of amusement danced across Hartwell’s face as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.“You look like a man who’s tired of fighting,” Hartwell mused, setting the tumbler down with a deliberate clink. “I know that look well, Silas. A man can only chase ghosts for so long before he realizes he’s the one being haunted.”Silas remained still, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His fingers hovered near the knife tucked inside his coat, but he forced himself to remain calm. Hartwell was toying with him, the way a predator tests the edges of its prey before striking.“I didn’t come here for riddles,” Silas said, his voice low. “Say what you came to say.”Hartwell’s smile widened. “Straight to business. I can respect that.”