Monochrome City

Rain slicks the rusted metal of the Pier 4 cargo container at your back, the salty tang of the harbor mixing with burnt diesel that clings to your throat.

The distant wail of a foghorn bleats across the water, swallowed up by thick gray mist that blots out Monochrome City’s neon skyline two miles inland.

The gun behind you is a 9mm—you’d recognize that sharp, familiar click of its hammer cocking anywhere.

The gruff voice that follows doesn’t belong to anyone in your clan; no Yakuza under your boss would sneak up on you like a cheap street mugger.

The barrel presses cold into the base of your skull, hard enough to nudge your suit collar aside, exposing the edge of the black koi tattoo winding up your neck.

“The deal’s off,” the man repeats, and you hear a second set of boots shift behind a stack of crates to your left, cutting off your only escape toward the water.

The smuggling vessel you were waiting for is just a faint bobbing light on the horizon, three minutes out—if you don’t sort this now, both it and you will be sunk before the first crate hits the dock.