On the other side of the heavy metal door was the cavernous interior of a ship's cargo hold, a vast space that seemed to swallow sound and light alike. The walls were ribbed with rusting steel beams, their surfaces marred by years of salt air and neglect. Overhead, a tangle of thick chains and ropes hung from reinforced metal grates, swaying gently with the rhythm of the ship creaking against the dock.
Dim industrial lights dangled from wires strung haphazardly along the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely illuminated the sprawling room. Shadows clung to the far corners, and the air was heavy with the smell of oil, brine, and something faintly metallic—rust, perhaps, or blood.
The cargo hold was cluttered with stacked crates and steel containers, some stamped with faded markings and labels in foreign languages. Makeshift furniture—a few rusted chairs and a splintered table—stood at the center, along with a barrel that served as a crude ashtray, cigarette butts spilling out onto the floor.
A single metal staircase spiraled up one side, leading to a catwalk that overlooked the hold. From this height, whoever controlled the room could watch everything below like a hawk surveying its prey.
In the middle of the cavernous hold, three figures stood under the dim, flickering light. One of them was tied to a battered metal chair, his body slumped forward as though his spine could no longer support him. His face was a grotesque canvas of blood and bruises, his swollen left eye so engorged that it completely obscured his vision on that side. The raw red and purple hues of fresh violence painted his features, dripping slowly onto his chest and pooling beneath the chair.
The man's upper body was stripped bare, his skin marred with angry red lash marks and deeper, jagged cuts that oozed fresh blood, staining his torso with streaks of crimson. The tattoo of the Iron Fangs—a trio of jagged claws slashing through the skin—was inked across the back of his hand, now trembling as he sobbed uncontrollably.
"I swear… I don't know," he choked out, his voice broken and weak, each word bubbling up with blood that dripped from his cracked lips. "I'm just a low-life thug, lowest on the food chain… I don't know nothing… please, stop." His voice cracked on the last word, his body jerking involuntarily as he coughed up a thick glob of blood, spitting it onto the cold steel floor.
Standing in front of him was a black hair man dressed sharply yet with an edge of brutality that made him fit seamlessly into this grim setting. He wore a deep blue vest over a button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal forearms tattooed with the Black Marlins' signature symbol—a leaping black fish etched in jagged, angular lines. His black slacks were slightly frayed at the hem, and his leather boots scuffed, but the pristine black gloves he wore on one hand added a touch of gentleman to his otherwise rugged appearance.
His skin, weathered by years spent under the unforgiving sun of the harbor, carried a faint tan, but it was far from smooth—small scars etched his jawline and just above his left brow. His angular cheekbones gave his face a predatory look, while the faint hollows beneath his eyes suggested sleepless nights spent plotting and surviving.
His eyes, however, were the most striking feature—gray like storm clouds before the rain, cold. They rarely betrayed emotion, but their intensity was enough to unsettle even the bravest of men. Framed by thick, dark brows that often furrowed in quiet thought, they seemed to pierce through the surface of everything, dissecting people and situations with surgical precision.
His nose was straight but slightly bent at the bridge—a subtle imperfection, likely the result of a long-forgotten brawl. Below it, his lips were thin and pale, often pressed into a firm line that seemed perpetually on the verge of a smirk or a snarl. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his jaw, adding to the ruggedness of his appearance, though it seemed deliberate, not careless.
In his other hand, he gripped a black baton, its surface slick with blood from the savage beating he'd delivered. He raised the baton slightly, tapping it against his thigh as he surveyed the broken man in the chair with a look of irritation. Sweat glistened on his brow, and with a sharp exhale, he wiped his forehead with his free hand, smearing blood across his temple in the process.
The man's expression was tight with frustration, his movements controlled, but there was an undeniable edge of fatigue in the way his shoulders drooped slightly. "You're wasting my time," he muttered, his voice low but sharp. His eyes, cold and disinterested, scanned the Iron Fang thug as though searching for any hint of lying—or simply deciding whether to continue the beating for sport.
The battered thug flinched as the man shifted his weight, the baton swinging lazily in his grip like a pendulum of violence waiting to strike again. Then, without warning, he let the baton drop into the waiting hands of a nearby thug.
The thug, a wiry man with scarred knuckles and a twisted grin, held a variety of tools in his other hand—pliers, a wickedly curved knife, and what looked like a car battery hooked up to two frayed wires. The glint of the tools in the dim light was enough to send a fresh wave of panic through the Iron Fang captive, who began to sob quietly, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"Well," the blue-vested man muttered, brushing a streak of blood off his sleeve with indifference attitude, "this isn't going anywhere. Gotta—"
Tunk. Tunk.
The steady sound of knocking reverberated through the steel room, cutting him off mid-sentence. Every head in the cargo hold turned toward the source of the sound, the atmosphere shifting instantly.
"Am I interrupting something?" Vince's collected voice echoed through the cavernous space as he stepped into view, his silhouette framed against the doorway.
The man in the blue vest turned sharply, his cold, irritated gaze snapping toward him. For a brief second, his frown deepened, but almost immediately it melted away, replaced by a wide, booming smile that lit up his face with unsettling enthusiasm.
"Oh, nothing, nothing at all!" he exclaimed, his voice taking on a tone of exaggerated friendliness. "Come in, come in! What a surprise. Which wind carried your noble feet to grace my humble doorstep today?"
He shoved the thug holding the torture tools out of his way, the man stumbling back a step as he tried to avoid dropping the gear in his hands. Then, with an almost theatrical flair, the blue-vested man delivered a swift kick to the Iron Fang thug still tied to the chair, sending him toppling to the side with a loud crash.
The captive groaned weakly, but the man in the vest paid him no mind, his focus entirely on Vince as he quickly strode across the room. His movements were smooth and eager, almost like an eager host welcoming a guest of honor.
"Come on, don't be shy!" the man continued, spreading his arms as he approached, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"
"I'm just here to make a deal with you, Calder," Vince said, his tone even, though his eyes scanned the room with focus.
Calder's grin widened, his expression equal parts charm and menace. "Oh, straight to the point, as always," he said with a chuckle. "Come on, let's head to my office. We can speak freely there."
Without waiting for a response, Calder turned on his heel and strode toward a door at the back of the room, disappearing through it without hesitation. Vince followed, his steps light as he entered Calder's supposed "office."
Eli Calder's office was a jarring blend of rough pragmatism and an almost laughable attempt at sophistication. The space was tucked into the farthest corner of the cargo hold, accessed through a thick steel door that groaned as it opened. Inside, the room was lit pathetically by a single ornate chandelier, its brass arms dulled with age and rust, hanging precariously from the ceiling. It cast an uneven glow over the space, as though even the light hesitated to linger here too long.
The centerpiece of the room was the owner's desk—a heavy, dark oak piece with intricate carvings along the edges, clearly a secondhand acquisition meant to project authority. The surface, however, betrayed the illusion; it was cluttered with crumpled cigarette packs, half-empty whiskey bottles, and stacks of papers bound with cheap rubber bands. A tarnished brass ashtray sat dead center, overflowing with cigarette butts, the smoke still faintly curling from one that had been abandoned.
Behind the desk stood a tall bookshelf, its shelves unevenly packed with a mix of dusty leather-bound volumes and trashy motivation books. A closer inspection revealed that many of the "classic" books were more for show than substance—titles like The Art of War and The Prince sitting pristine and untouched. Wedged awkwardly between them were obvious favorites: dog-eared pulp magazines with garish covers and titles like Sin on the Dead Sea.
The floor was a mismatched mess of cracked tiles and a threadbare Persian rug, its vibrant patterns faded and stained. Calder's chair was an oversized, worn-out leather piece that had clearly seen better days, the armrests rubbed raw, exposing the stuffing beneath. Across from it, two mismatched chairs were placed for guests—one a cheap, metal folding chair and the other an old, sagging armchair that threatened to swallow anyone who dared sit in it.
The walls were plastered with framed photos, most of them depicting Calder flanked by burly men, all grinning over stacks of cash or posing with various "trophies" of their criminal exploits. Mixed in were random attempts at class—a framed print of a hunting scene, an antique clock stuck at a perpetual 4:12, and a chipped bust of a Roman general that sat on a pedestal in the corner like a forgotten relic.
Despite the attempt at "opulent" flair, the room exuded the undeniable personality of its owner. The faint smell of tobacco, cheap cologne, and spilled alcohol clung to the air, undercutting any illusion of refinement.