The Yokohama stronghold crouched against the horizon like a steel beast, its neon-lit facade a lie masking the rot within. Shipping cranes loomed overhead, their skeletal arms casting jagged shadows across the docks as Ruoxi and the team approached under a sky thick with storm clouds. The air smelled of salt and diesel, undercut by the faint tang of gunpowder drifting from the yakuza base—a fortress of concrete and corrugated metal, bristling with Xia Zhenguo's dirty fingerprints.
Hiroshi Tanaka led the way, his lean frame hunched as he darted between crates, a tablet glowing faintly in his hand. "Security's tight," he whispered, tapping the screen. "Cameras every fifty meters, guards on rotation. Smuggling caches are upstairs—weapons, tech, my gear. We blow that, Xia Zhenguo's operation bleeds."
