The mission wasn't just about the money anymore. Dawnkirk was a ghost from his past, a place where the fog hid more than just the horizon. As he stepped out into the humid night, he knew that by dawn, he’d either be a very rich man or another secret buried in the silt.
The air in the —a name that sounded more like a high-stakes gambling den than a social lounge—was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and nervous energy. At the center of it all sat Hellodrkes , known to the underground as the finest "cleaner" in the city. Across from him, a man trembling in a bespoke suit slid a folder across the mahogany table. Inside was a single photograph of a coastal town: Dawnkirk .
Should we focus the next chapter on the he packs for the trip, or skip straight to his tense arrival at the Dawnkirk docks?
Hellodrkes didn't look at the photo. He looked at the clock. "Dawnkirk doesn't sleep; it waits. If we’re doing this, I need total radio silence and a boat that can handle the riptides." He stood up, the neon light of the club reflecting off his dark glasses.
"It’s not just a heist," the client whispered. "It’s a recovery. Something was left behind in the salt mines before the tide came in, and you're the only one who can get past the harbor's security."
