At the dock, the moment the heavy metal door swung open, the atmosphere changed. Tension thickened like a storm about to break.
The low overhead lights shine across the stacks of crates filled with the smuggled goods. The salty scent of the sea mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of danger.
Damon's expression shifted instantly. His usual smirk vanished, replaced by something darker, something lethal.
Eleanor, standing slightly behind him, felt the shift in the atmosphere before she saw them.
A group of men, at least a dozen, strode in with stoic expressions. They were rough-looking, dressed in dark clothing, their hands resting on their weapons.
Their leader, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, stopped a few feet from Damon. The two men locked eyes like predators sizing each other up.
"Well, well," the scarred man sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Damon... Looks like you've been having quite the business run here."
