Location: The Rusted Anchor — Portside Harbor Pub
Time: Night — The Meeting
---
The Rusted Anchor smelled of cheap beer, old wood, and the sea. Neon signs flickered on the walls—half of them dead, the rest dying. A jukebox in the corner played something low and forgettable. The tables were scarred, the floor was sticky, and the only light came from a row of hanging bulbs that swayed with every draft off the water.
At the back, two men circled a pool table.
Wilder was tall and lean, with the kind of face that made people look twice and then regret it. His movements were loose, unhurried—but his eyes never stopped tracking. He wore a dark jacket with the collar turned up and carried himself like a man who'd been in this room a thousand times and never once been surprised.
Across from him, Cheng was the opposite. Huxain—mixed with the kind of American Gen-Z energy that made him look both fashionable and out of place. His jacket was designer. His shoes were cleaner than the floor had any right to be. He held his cue like it was a prop, not a tool.
"Your shot," Wilder said.
Cheng lined up. Missed.
"Tch." He straightened, grinning. "So. Lately I've been real out of it. Trying to track down those suckers who ghosted our trade in that delinquent Mexicano corner. You know—Andryi."
One of Cheng's men—a wiry kid with a cigarette dangling from his lip—exhaled smoke. "Think it was Andreas."
"Yeah, Andreas." Cheng rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
Wilder's cue clicked against a ball. It dropped clean. His voice was mild. "Oh? What happened?"
"Don't trip with me." Cheng circled the table. "You actually don't know what happened?"
Wilder shrugged. "Don't know what you mean."
Cheng's eyes widened—genuine surprise. "Well, if you don't know, then maybe Lacera Firm didn't want to lose more of their associates. All that cargo been shipping offshore for them." He leaned on his cue. "If you don't know, then I don't want to talk about it. Maybe wait for the next meeting with Zhang Han."
Wilder chuckled.
Cheng's brow furrowed. "What's so funny, dude?"
"Nothing." Wilder lined up his next shot. "Just—if I remember correctly, your post in Osseno handles our operational routes. Makes sure our trades and shipments move smooth."
"Yeah." Cheng's tone sharpened. "Wise dude. That's what I've always done. Why ask? Don't tell me you actually know about Ashwick corridors state and suspect I had involvement or something."
Wilder's cue clicked. Another ball dropped.
"It's not that," he said. "You see, a couple months back, some unknown assassins started sabotaging port deliveries to my harbor. Caused a lot of damage. Goods, headaches, the whole mess."
Cheng's expression flickered—a hairline crack, there and gone. His grip shifted on the cue. He missed his next shot badly.
Wilder smiled.
"Right," Wilder said. "If it weren't for the aid of a very spirited fellow—who is now my business partner—I'd have suffered more. We caught those offenders. Didn't get who they worked for. But we did find their phone. Tracked their client." He paused. "At first it looked like someone in the Crestfallen hood of Veyranni. Almost started a territory fight with Madame Lynne. But then—it wasn't her. It was an IP address. An anonymous user." His eyes lifted. "Someone working for you, Cheng."
Cheng's face went still. Then: "Hey—hey, what makes you so sure? What if he's—what if it's someone else—"
Wilder didn't answer.
He moved.
---
Cheng grabbed the pool table—one end, both hands—and heaved. Wood tore. The table flipped toward Wilder like a battering ram.
Wilder sidestepped. Then he jumped—up onto the overturned table, boots landing on the felt, his weight settling as if he'd planned it.
Cheng's men rushed him.
The first was big—shoulders like a doorframe. He swung. Wilder caught the fist on his shoulder, pivoted, and slid behind him—arm around the throat, twisting. The man dropped.
The second came from the right. Wilder's boot caught him in the chest and sent him into the wall.
The third reached for the back of Wilder's head. Wilder answered with a counter—elbow, shoulder, hip—and the man folded.
Cheng ran.
He made it three steps before someone tripped him.
He hit the floor hard. When he rolled over, gasping, Wilder was already standing over him—jacket barely rumpled, knuckles barely red.
Cheng scrambled backward. "Okay—okay! I was just messing with you, man—just messing—"
Wilder crouched. His voice stayed level. "Don't play with me. We don't meet often. That means someone else gave the order. Who."
Cheng's eyes darted. "The—the Zhangs. They tipped good money. The instruction was—go after you."
Wilder went very still.
"Zhang Han," he said, slowly, "just why? I've never crossed him. Never touched his routes. Never stepped on his name. Why would he come for me?"
His voice dropped—quieter, harder.
"Unless he knows something about my elder sister's disappearance."
Cheng tried to squirm. "Could you—could you please unhand me—"
"If I let you go," Wilder said, "you'll tip Zhang Han. Tell him I'm coming."
"No—no, I wouldn't—I swear—"
Wilder looked into his eyes. Cheng's eyes were lying.
"Wait—wait—you can't do this to me! I'm the holder of Osseno! If you touch me, they'll look into it, they'll come after—"
Wilder's hands moved.
A single, clean motion. A sound like a branch snapping in cold air.
Then silence.
---
The pub's door swung open onto the harbor. The night air was wet and salt-heavy. Distant sirens warred with each other across the water. Overhead, a news helicopter drifted lazy circles, its spotlight sweeping the docks.
A man in a long coat leaned against the railing, watching the water. He was tall, well-built, with a face that was handsome in a way that felt borrowed—like it had been chosen carefully for a purpose. He had the kind of relaxed, open stare that made strangers trust him on instinct.
Wilder stepped out. He didn't look back at the door.
"Hey, blad," the man said, without turning. The accent in his voice was casual, broad—like he'd grown up somewhere the sun was honest about its work. "You've been very busy lately."
Wilder came to stand beside him. "Nathan Drayke."
Nathan turned, grinning. "Of course I am. I'm the Vault Breaker, aren't I?" He nodded toward the harbor. "Though I've got a big headache now."
The sirens were louder. A patrol car screamed past the fence line, lights strobing off the water. A second followed. A third. Above them, the helicopter's spotlight cut across the dock.
A news banner appeared on the nearest warehouse screen—reflected in a puddle, then flickering into life.
WELB 7 BREAKING: CPD CHIEF SARAH ISSUES CITY-WIDE MANHUNT FOR ELIJAH ISLEY AND HIS CONSPIRATORS.
Nathan Drayke nodded at it.
"Didn't they issue that three months ago?"
Nathan's grin didn't fade. "Well. Now it's different."
Wilder's eyes stayed on the screen. "Seeing you here means it isn't anything good."
Nathan turned to face him fully. "You know me. I just need help with something."
Wilder considered him for a long moment. Then he sighed.
"What kind of help could I possibly give you?"
Nathan didn't answer. He just smiled.
Wilder shook his head. "Fine by me."
---
The patrol cars kept moving. The helicopter kept circling. The sirens kept rising and falling.
And somewhere beyond the harbor lights, the night was very, very quiet.