You stake out Pier 17 in the shadow of a rusted shipping container, the cold metal biting through your trench coat. The rain has eased to a fine mist that clings to your skin like a second layer. For hours, there's nothing but the creak of moored ships and the occasional shout of dockworkers. Then, just as your watch ticks past 2 AM, the black Cadillac glides into view like a shark through dark water.

You track it from a distance, keeping three cars between you at all times. The Cadillac makes two slow loops around the warehouse district before stopping near a boarded-up cannery. A hulking figure emerges—broad shoulders straining his tailored suit, a jagged scar running from eyebrow to jawline. He scans the docks before slipping inside, leaving the car running. Through the cracked window, you catch a glimpse of something glinting on the passenger seat—a silver pocket watch with a distinctive dragon engraving.

Creeping closer, you press against the damp brick wall beside the cannery's service entrance. Muffled voices drift through the rotting wood—one deep and commanding, the other nasal and nervous. '...the shipment goes out with the morning tide,' the scarred man growls. 'And clean up this mess with the husbands. The boss wants no more loose ends.' A choked sob answers him before being cut off by the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh.

The service door rattles suddenly. You barely have time to duck behind a stack of oil drums before the nasal-voiced man stumbles out, clutching his bleeding nose. He's wearing a shipping clerk's uniform with a Golden Dragon Society pin on the lapel. As he limps toward the Cadillac, something falls from his pocket—a monogrammed handkerchief stained crimson.