The boat groaned as it cut through the waves, its hull heavy with cargo. The air smelled of salt and something sharper—iron, metallic, unsettling. Lanterns swung overhead, casting long shadows across the deck.
Two men leaned against the railing, whispering as the mist thickened around them.
Man 1 (uneasy): "You see that? Blood. It's pooling near the crates."
Man 2 (frowning): "Yeah… and they made us leave our phones behind. No contact, no questions. Doesn't sit right with me."
The captain, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, overheard and barked a laugh.
Captain: "Relax. It's beef. We're transporting meat. Blood's bound to spill."
The passengers exchanged doubtful glances. One of them stepped forward—Michael Cross, though most called him Mike. He was tall, lean, with shoulders that carried quiet strength. His dark hair was tousled by the sea wind, and a faint scar traced along his jawline, half-hidden in the lantern light. His eyes—piercing, steady—were the kind that made people look away first.
There was something about him, a presence that suggested he'd seen things others hadn't. Rumors whispered among the passengers said he'd survived fights no ordinary man should, though no one dared ask him directly.
Mike (calm, certain): "That's not beef blood."
The captain's smile faltered. He turned, narrowing his eyes at Mike.
Captain: "And how would you know that?"
Mike didn't answer. He simply held the captain's gaze, the silence stretching until even the waves seemed to hush. The other men shifted uncomfortably, sensing something unspoken.
The captain muttered under his breath and turned away, but the unease remained. The smell of iron clung to the air, thicker now, as if the sea itself carried secrets.
The boat shuddered as the cargo shifted below deck. The captain muttered about crates of beef, but the metallic scent in the air told Mike otherwise. His eyes lingered on the stains, sharp and calculating. Whatever was stored down there, it wasn't meant for ordinary trade.