"That's the administrator's warehouse, right?" Julian asked the worker.
"Yes."
Julian nodded slightly and walked towards the warehouse.
The dock looked the same: same people walking around, trucks moving.
When he reached the warehouse, a man stopped him.
"Need to discuss some shipment details."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Do I need one?"
The man cast a suspicious gaze on Julian before letting him go.
Inside, a large curtain was covering everything. Julian checked his phone; it was almost ten. He breathed out slightly and stepped forward.
The silk brushed against his figure as he moved the curtain. Inside, there wasn't anything worth noting. The place was almost empty.
A desk pressed against the right side, a computer on top. Behind the monitor, a man was working. A few files lay out as the man glanced at them and tapped data into the computer.
A wooden shelf stood a little further back, files arranged neatly, with a few cardboard boxes.
His gaze moved to the left. Cardboard boxes were scattered, some opened, some untouched.
When the man noticed his arrival, Julian quickly raised his hand. The man stood up, confusion visible on his face.
"Help you with something?"
Julian flashed a harmless smile and answered, "You sure can."
He pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'm Julian Forst."
He offered his hand as a greeting, but the man only replied with a dry nod.
Julian let his hand drop onto the table and continued, "We're a small company from Corsalis—Ironwood Furnishings—just starting with overseas orders."
"The administrator isn't here."
Julian blinked, as if it wasn't something he'd expected. "Oh. Alright. When do you think I could meet him?"
The man checked the monitor and answered, "Next week. Didn't mention where he went."
Julian let out a small, polite sigh. "That might push us back a little."
"You can do everything without him."
Julian nodded quickly, "Okay. That's good to know. I'd just like to familiarize myself with the process—arrivals, storage times, charges, that sort of thing."
The man stood, walked to a wall of shelves, and tugged down a cardboard box covered in dust.
He dropped it on the floor between them with a soft thump.
"Everything's in there."
Julian leaned forward immediately, eyes scanning the contents like a grateful student.
"Perfect. Thank you."
Julian crouched down and opened the box. He pushed the few folders aside until he found something that looked useful: dates, times, company stamps, handwritten initials in the margins.
The man went back to his place and began typing on the keyboard.
Julian flipped pages casually, only giving them a glance. Most of it looked routine: cargo entry logs, barcode receipts.
Then he found the schedule sheet.
Every arrival time highlighted in the same narrow band: 09:30–12:30.
Julian traced the line with his thumb, then turned the page. Same timing. Next page: same again.
"Always before lunch?" he asked, keeping his voice even.
The man didn't waste his energy on turning back. "That's how it's been since forever. Work starts at nine, unload by noon. No trucks after that."
Julian nodded as if that made perfect sense.
"Good work, I guess."
He pulled another stack towards him.
He scanned the left column absently until the destination stamps began repeating:
St. Claire Medical Block,
North-Wing Rehabilitative,
Silverline Children's Ward.
All were hospitals. They were getting steady shipments, and some supplies kept repeating.
Julian paused.
Hospitals didn't order bulk supplies through dock warehouses—not unless someone bypassed central procurement.
And Silverline—isn't that the hospital closest to the docks? He let the thought hang and took another file.
Company names repeated across several sheets:
Cypress & Ginn,
Harmony Partners,
LKBND,
Blue Harbor Imports.
He didn't recall anything special about them.
"Wait."
His finger stopped at one name:
LKBND.
"Where the fuck have I heard this name before?" He glanced at the man, who was still typing.
Julian flipped the page.
A medical supply company. Its main branch was in Corsalis. Supplies were high, Julian noted. Probably some big-name company. For now, he pushed this aside.
He put the sheet back inside the box and opened another.
"When does the rest arrive?" he asked casually.
"The rest?" The man frowned.
"The other ships," Julian clarified. "These logs were only about one." He tapped the page with one finger. "But I've heard there are four of them."
The man's typing slowed. "Oh. That."
Julian waited.
"We only handle what's routed to this
warehouse."
The man shut the file he was working on. "The administrator knows about the other ones, or someone does."
"So there are other ones."
The man shrugged. "Probably. Can't say."
Julian smiled politely. "And where do those go?"
The man leaned back and finally looked up at him. "That's administrator-level clearance. If you want to know, ask him when he shows up."
Julian nodded, as if that settled everything.
He closed the box, pushed it aside gently, and stood up.
"Thanks for all your help. I'll speak with my superiors quickly and clear things up."
The man nodded once, as if waiting for Julian to leave his sight.
Julian stepped out through the curtain and walked toward the loading yard again.
Four ships. Only one in the records.
Everyone directed him towards the administrator, who wasn't here.
"What will come after this?"
…
Simon checked his wristwatch.
11:50.
The thief's words were still clear in his ears.
"12 PM and 12 AM. Just a little deeper, where people start to stop you."
He was already deep in the marketplace, but his legs didn't seem to stop there.
The sun was high in the sky, glaring its heat overhead. Stalls here were cut thin, and the voices of people kept fading in the background.
Then he saw seven men carrying rectangular boxes. One man led the way. Behind him, two boxes moved smoothly.
No one seemed bothered by that. Everyone kept doing whatever they were doing.
Simon slid toward a nearby stall on instinct.
He leaned on the counter, eyes forward, attention sideways.
The stall owner, a woman in her late thirties, rambled about discount spices and "fresh stock tomorrow."
Simon nodded at all the wrong places, gaze pinned to the passing boxes.
The men walked straight through the heart of the market, untouched by the crowd, and disappeared into a narrow crossing.
Simon pushed off the counter and started to follow.
Another market area met his eyes.
Electronics spilled everywhere. Old laptops, cracked phones, spare parts scattered like trash.
Sellers shouted over one another, palms waving screens he didn't want.
The crowd tightened. Simon weaved through bodies, sweat rolling down his back.
He never lost sight of those men.
Ten minutes later, the noise thinned. The alley opened into a quieter road. The men stopped beside a squat, blue mini-truck.
They lifted the boxes with ease. The tailgate slammed shut.
One of them glanced back.
Simon was already hidden behind a rusted metal shutter, fingers resting near his holster.
A knuckle tapped the truck's frame.
The engine grumbled to life, rolling forward on narrow tires. The men split off, walking away in the opposite direction.
Simon stepped out once they were out of sight.
He memorized the street sign overhead.
Rashid Lane.
Vizier Road.
He barely took three steps when a voice slipped in behind him.
"Got you."
Simon's hand dropped behind his coat, fingers curling around the gun's grip. He looked up.
The thief from yesterday leaned against a wall like he'd been waiting all morning.
"That's a bad idea," the man said lazily, eyes half-lidded. "Drawing that here."
Simon held still. "What do you want?"
"Nothing." The thief shrugged. "Just returning something you dropped."
He lifted his hand.
A gold-chained locket dangled from his fingers.
Simon snatched it before the man blinked.
The thief didn't tighten his grip or step back. "I didn't look inside," he said. "Not my business."
Simon stared at him, and the thief simply grinned, like the whole world was a joke only he understood.
…
Evening.
Paul stood across the street, hands in his pockets, watching the building.
SEPTERS FOUNDATION didn't look like much: a wide, low factory. Rows of pale tiles stacked behind iron fencing. Guards stood lazily, paying attention to nothing.
A truck rolled in through the side gate. Then, after a few minutes, another came out.
Paul followed it with his eyes until it disappeared into traffic.
Tiles. Of all things.
He exhaled quietly and reached for his phone. His thumb hovered for a moment before tapping the screen. Before he could place the call, the phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He frowned, scanning the digits. It didn't seem like he had received a call from this number before. Even digging through his deepest memories, he recalled nothing.
Just blank.
Paul answered without speaking.
He waited. Seconds passed.
He watched the road instead. Cars crossed the intersection. A cyclist swerved between lanes. A man shouted loudly at a vendor.
"Hello?" Paul finally spoke.
A soft sound reached his ear: someone's breathing.
"Hello."
Paul's posture shifted slightly. "Mia?"
"Yep."
He closed his eyes for half a second. "Is there something you need?" he asked.
"Do I need something?" she replied lightly. "Let me guess—"
"I'll call you later," Paul said, and ended the call.
The screen went dark.
Paul looked at the factory once more. Then he turned and walked toward his apartment, blending back into the evening crowd.