The first trafficker Eleanor Patra kills this year cries for his mother.
She hears it.
She ignores it.
The warehouse smells like oil and old fear. Rain taps against rusted metal roofing while she stands over him, steady as winter. She doesn't shout. Don't threaten. She simply waits until silence becomes unbearable.
"You move girls through dock territory," she says quietly.
He shakes his head too fast.
She presses the knife into his thigh. Not deep. Precise.
"Who controls the docks?"
"South Pier," he gasps. "Kumar's territory. We pay protection."
Kumar.
The name coils in her stomach.
Ravi Kumar doesn't just run businesses. He runs loyalty. Fear. Entire bloodlines of organized families that call themselves packs because it sounds cleaner than mafia.
Her brother died in a territory conflict tied to those docks.
Or so she was told.
She leans close. "Who signed off on the last shipment?"
The man hesitates.
Her blade moves again.
"Kumar didn't handle it personally!" he blurts. "But nothing moves without his knowledge!"
That's enough.
She leaves him alive but broken. Dead men don't spread warnings.
By midnight, she's on a rooftop overlooking South Pier. Rifle assembled. Scope aligned.
Black SUVs arrive one by one. Men step out in tailored suits that cost more than most people's houses. Controlled. Efficient.
Then he exits the final car.
Ravi Kumar.
Tall. Dark suit. No visible weapons. No bodyguard within arm's reach.
He doesn't need one.
Power radiates from him without effort. Conversations lower when he walks past. Even the rain seems to hesitate before touching him.
She aligns the crosshairs with his chest.
Her breathing slows.
Finger tightens—
He stops.
Look up.
Directly at her.
Impossible.
The distance is too far. The rooftop is unlit. She's prone behind ventilation units.
Still, his eyes find her.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket.
She never takes her eyes off the scope when she answers.
"Don't," a smooth, controlled voice says.
Her pulse stutters.
"You're aiming at the wrong enemy, Eleanor."
Her name hits harder than the rain.
She doesn't lower the rifle.
"How do you have this number?" she asks.
A pause. Then:
"I've had it for two years."
The world narrows.
Two years ago was the night Arjun died.
"Lower the weapon," Ravi continues calmly. "If I wanted you dead, that rooftop would already be ash."
Her jaw tightens.
Below, his men remain relaxed. Not scrambling. Not scanning. They trust him.
"Who told you about my brother?" she demands.
Another pause.
"I did."
The words sink in like a blade.
"I'll give you answers," he says. "But not like this."
She hesitates.
Then slowly lowers the rifle.
Down below, Ravi ends his call. Slides the phone into his pocket. Doesn't look relieved.
He looks satisfied.
As if something long anticipated has finally arrived.
Eleanor disassembles the rifle with shaking hands she refuses to acknowledge.
He knew her name.
He knew her brother.
And he knew exactly where she was.
She leaves before the meeting ends.
But she doesn't see the second shooter on a neighboring rooftop—
the one who lowers his rifle only after Ravi glances subtly in his direction.
And she never notices that Ravi wasn't looking at her.
He was looking past her.