“I-I-I-I-I'm a, I-I-I-I-I'm a

  I-I-I-I-I'm a mother father gentleman.”

  Psy’s thumping bass synced perfectly with each growl of Eli’s Tata Nano.

  Technically, the small car wasn’t built for such reckless enthusiasm—but Eli couldn’t resist. His eyes flicked between the rearview mirror, side mirrors, and the road ahead—calculating gaps in traffic like a seasoned chess player.

  A slower sedan loomed ahead. Eli swerved past it, the gap narrowing to mere inches.

  The hum of traffic intensified. A motorbike whizzed by, barely missing his fender.

  The traffic light flashed red.

  Eli eased off the gas, his foot hovering over the brake before pressing down—gently at first, then firmer as the car decelerated. The seatbelt tightened against him.

  Boredom crept in as he waited for the light to change.

  He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with practiced ease.

  A deep drag.

  Smoke curled around him as he exhaled, his focus never leaving the road.

  Psy was still thumping away, bass rattling through the tiny car.

  A few minutes later…

  With another “Mother, father, gentleman,” the lyrics came to a close, and the traffic light blinked to orange. He swiftly tossed the cigarette butt into the open bin by the side of the road with a flourish. It landed perfectly, and though it might’ve looked silly, he felt a light surge of satisfaction.

  His foot hovered over the accelerator, a familiar excitement coursing through his veins. The idle engine growled to life, "Bhrroom, bhrroom." He glanced briefly at the rearview mirror, a smile tugging at his lips as he saw he was ahead of the line of cars, which now glared at him like predators eyeing their prey.

  As the lights flickered to green, he slammed his foot down on the gas while releasing the brakes. The car leaped forward, and the exhaust puffed out a faint cloud of smoke.

  Navigating through the familiar streets, he took shortcuts whenever possible. His small vehicle was perfect for the city, and as he neared his destination, he appreciated how easily it maneuvered through the traffic. A few years of experience with the same machine had made him intimately familiar with its quirks and capabilities.

  He turned off the radio, already able to smell the sea before reaching the border of the docks—specifically, the decrepit part he knew, far from the official harbor. It didn’t matter. He was there on official business. He glanced at the package in the back of his car through the rearview mirror, though he didn’t look directly at it. It was none of his business what was inside. The less he knew, the better.

  An inconspicuous iron gate appeared at nine o’clock. As he passed a few warehouses, he turned and stopped before it. He waved to the CCTV, and a couple of guards who recognized him let him in. Calmly, he drove forward, parked, and got out. One of the guards patted him down. A few nods of acknowledgment followed, and he was finally told to go inside.

  Unlike the luxurious office from which he had departed, the warehouse was simple—crates piled on one side, sacks stacked high on the other. After walking a few minutes, passing workers loading and unloading goods, he reached the far end of the warehouse. There, large doors stood, behind which the distant sound of the sea and the occasional cry of seagulls could be heard.

  At the far end was a small desk—likely a supervisor’s desk—and sitting behind it was a woman.

  ***

  Vera Donovan, despite sitting, exuded the aura of a predator. Her posture was sharp and deliberate, a woman who commanded respect without speaking. Her raven-black hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, its length barely grazing the top of her collar, revealing a well-defined jawline. Her stormy eyes scanned her surroundings with quiet intensity—always assessing, always alert. She carried herself with an air of confidence, always a step ahead.

  Dressed in a simple, well-tailored outfit—dark trousers, a form-fitting shirt, and sturdy boots—she blended seamlessly into the gritty environment of the warehouse. While workers bustled around her, loading and unloading, she moved with purpose. Her gaze flicked to the steady flow of activity but never truly engaged with it. She was a ghost in the chaos, observing, waiting, controlling the narrative without ever needing to get her hands dirty.

  Her face remained calm, almost indifferent, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her intellect and immense power. She didn’t need much—just a small, unassuming desk at the far end of the warehouse, the occasional sound of the sea and seagulls punctuating the otherwise silent hum of the place. To anyone else, it might seem temporary, unremarkable. But for Vera, it was a calculated position.

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  She wasn’t here by accident. She was waiting—for the delivery from headquarters. The package was important, though the specifics weren’t for her to concern herself with. What mattered was that she was in control of its arrival, delivery, and fate. The workers and guards knew her code name, Sable, and had learned not to question her authority. Over the years, they understood that crossing Vera Donovan was not an option.

  In this quiet, remote corner of the city by the sea, Vera was both the calm and the storm. Powerful, yet in this moment, her power was silent—almost invisible—until the package arrived.

  She watched the "boy" approach, her gaze unwavering. Already, she could see through the false bravado he wore like a cheap suit. The way he carried himself, masking the nervous energy beneath, was too obvious. Well, the mule is here, she thought, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

  She had seen types like him before—eager, jittery, trying to impress, but ultimately just another cog in a much larger machine. He was here to deliver, but she wasn’t fooled by the act. She could already tell he didn’t have the stomach for what he was about to become part of.

  As he drew closer, she shifted slightly in her seat, her calm eyes locking onto him. Everything about her was calculated—deliberate—a stark contrast to the jittery uncertainty radiating from him. It wouldn’t take much for her to remind him who controlled this space, and the weight of her silent authority made that clear.

  She waited. Let him come closer. Let him realize how out of his depth he truly was.

  ***

  As Eli drew nearer, his nerves began to unravel. The steady hum of the warehouse, the constant motion of workers, and the watchful eyes of CCTV cameras only intensified his anxiety. The noise, the ever-present sense of being observed—it was all closing in on him. And then, as the figure at the far end of the room took shape, his heart began to pound.

  “She looks like her,” he thought, a shiver running through him as the woman behind the desk came into focus.

  His face drained of color. Clutching the package tighter, he tried to steady his erratic pulse. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and with every step toward Vera Donovan, his legs grew heavier. His gaze dropped to the ground, unwilling—unable—to meet hers.

  Vera didn’t move. She sat perfectly still, posture sharp and composed. Her dark eyes fixed on him with a predator’s calm. The contrast was jarring: Eli’s nervous energy collided with her cold, deliberate control. Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating—as if the world itself had paused to watch.

  When Eli handed her the package, Vera didn’t immediately take it. She let the moment linger, her eyes never leaving him. The tension grew thick.

  Eli shifted nervously, his gaze darting to the exit as if he could already sense his escape. His grip tightened on the package, as though holding it could protect him from the weight of the transaction.

  Finally, Vera moved. Her hand stretched out slowly, almost deliberately, as she took the package from him. There were no words—none were necessary. The transaction was understood.

  Eli’s anxiety peaked. He wanted to flee. His steps quickened as he began to retreat, but Vera’s presence remained heavy, urging him to leave faster.

  "Leave," Vera commanded, her voice soft but absolute, a quiet authority that left no room for protest.

  Without a second thought, Eli turned and bolted toward the door. His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty space, a reminder of his urgency and fear. He didn’t dare look back.

  Once he was gone, Vera sat in silence, the package resting on the desk before her. She could hear the fading sound of Eli’s retreating footsteps, and in that moment, allowed herself a brief moment of reflection. A tool, no more. Disposable, she thought. But useful. For now.

  She didn’t open the package immediately. Instead, her eyes lingered on the door. She knew what was coming, knew the significance of the delivery. But for now, she was in control. The wheels were already in motion.

  With deliberate precision, Vera rose from her chair. The soft sound of her boots against the cold concrete floor broke the silence. She moved toward a set of shelves, where a fresh set of instructions awaited her. The package would be dealt with when the time was right. But for now, there were other matters to attend to—preparations for what would come next.

  As the faint sound of the sea reached her ears, she allowed herself a moment of stillness. The game’s about to change, she thought, her mind already calculating the next steps. But then, just as quickly, she snapped back into focus. The game was always changing. And Sable—Vera Donovan—was always one step ahead.

  ***

  After an hour and a half spent on flashcards with the Language Owl app and a hearty breakfast, Jimmy returned to his room upstairs, this time without the usual presence of the hitmen. He’d given them some slack for now, focusing instead on more pressing matters. Flicking on his BlackBerry, he saw a new message from Gateman003:

  “Package received. Standby.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Jimmy's lips. He switched off the phone and leaned back in his revolving chair, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For the first time that morning, the weight of tension seemed to lift—if only briefly.

  ***

  Eli could hardly believe he’d made it out in one piece. The woman—she looked so much like the one who had died just weeks ago. But that was impossible… wasn’t it? Shaking off the thought, he gave himself a mental pat on the back and adopted a more casual stride as he approached the exit.

  Then, just as he reached the threshold of the warehouse door, a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

  His heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

  “Oops, sorry,” a voice apologized.

  Startled, Eli spun around to find one of the workers standing there—dressed in dark overalls and reflective clothing, just like the rest of the crew.

  “You forgot the subscription,” the worker said, holding out an envelope.

  “Right, thanks!” Eli snatched the envelope without a second thought, his nerves urging him to move faster. Without another word, he bolted for the door, leaving the worker standing there, momentarily bewildered by his sudden exit.

  The worker shook his head with a bemused smile and returned to his duties, reporting back to his supervisor as if nothing had happened.