Even from a distance, Nikolai could see that he was a giant of a man—easily towering over anyone he'd seen in the city so far.
The man's silhouette was framed by the gray horizon, the early morning light casting long shadows across his figure.
Nikolai paused, his footsteps faltering for a moment. Something felt off—not just because of the man's height, but the eerie placidity.
His presence seemed out of place in the otherwise deserted docks. There was no movement from him, no fidgeting or shifting, just that silent, unnerving stillness.
Nikolai took a few more hesitant steps forward, almost as if he was drawn toward the bench. The closer he got, the more he noticed—the way the man's trenchcoat hung loosely off his frame, the thick hands that rested on his knees, fingers curled slightly as if they were used to gripping something sharp.
He stopped a good distance away, breath catching in his throat as he realized just how large the man was. He must've been at least six and a half feet tall, with the kind of build that looked like it had been forged through years of hard labor.
His face, partially hidden beneath a thick, bushy, brown beard, was turned toward the water, his expression unreadable. But there was something else—something that made Nikolai's skin crawl.
He couldn't put his finger on it at first, but standing there, staring at the man, the air seemed to grow colder, heavier, like the weight of the world was pressing down on the dock.
Nikolai took a step forward, then stopped again, unsure if he should keep going. Maybe it was the leftover anxiety from the nightmare, or maybe it was just the eeriness of the situation, but he couldn't shake the feeling that approaching might be a mistake.
Still, he couldn't turn away. Something about the man pulled at him, a silent command that whispered for Nikolai to look closer. He found himself stepping forward again, edging nearer to the bench. His gargantuan size became more imposing with every footstep, but it wasn't just that.
There was an aura around him—a heavy, oppressive presence that seemed to weigh down the air itself. Nikolai cleared his throat, unsure if he was trying to break the silence for himself or for the man.
The man didn't move, still seated firmly on the bench. Nikolai swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, before taking another step forward, close enough now that he could make out the details of the man's face. His eyes—deep, sunken, and dark—remained fixed on the water.
His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were lost in thought, or maybe watching something that only he could see. A gust of wind blew past, and for a brief moment, Nikolai thought he saw a movement in his lips, muttering the most silent of words. He leaned in, straining to hear, but it was barely a whisper, swallowed by the wind and the distant call of seagulls.
Suddenly, the man's head turned. Slowly, his gaze shifted from the water to Nikolai. His eyes locked onto his, and Nikolai felt a cold shiver.
There was no hostility in his expression, but no warmth either—just an intense, unreadable stare that seemed to pierce through him. For a moment, Nikolai thought he saw something flicker behind those eyes.
Recognition, maybe. Or something darker.
"Baihu," Nikolai whispered, almost involuntarily, the name slipping from his lips before registering he had even spoken.
His eyes narrowed, and for the first time, he moved. His massive hand gripped the edge of the bench, his knuckles whitening as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood slowly, towering over Nikolai now, his shadow stretching long across the dock.
Nikolai's heart pounded in his chest. The name hung between them, thick and heavy, like a secret that shouldn't have been spoken aloud. Without saying a word, the man stepped past him.
The sound of his heavy boots thudded against the dock, and Nikolai caught the faint scent of saltwater and smoke as he brushed by. His gaze lingered for just a moment, as if waiting for something—maybe for him to speak, to react—but he couldn't bring himself to move.
Then, just as silently as he had risen, he walked away, his large frame slowly disappearing into the early morning fog that had begun to roll in from the water. Nikolai stood there, heart pounding, watching him fade into the mist. But as he turned his gaze back to where he had been sitting, something caught his eye.
A briefcase?
It sat on the bench, untouched, just where the man had been. Simple, worn leather with brass clasps, its surface scratched and weathered, like it had seen years of use.
Nikolai's stomach tightened with a strange sense of foreboding.
He had left it behind, on purpose, no doubt.
He glanced around, as if expecting for the man to reappear, but the dock was empty now, save for the quiet lapping of waves against the harbor.
His mind raced—should he take it? Leave it? What if it wasn't meant for him? But then again... why had he left it there? Why right after looking at him?
Curiosity gnawed away, and despite every instinct telling him to leave it alone, he found himself stepping toward the bench. His fingers brushed the worn leather of the handle, and he hesitated.
There was a heaviness to the briefcase, both literal and figurative, like whatever was inside carried a weight far greater than it should. Nikolai swallowed hard, his heart trying to escape its osseous prison.
If it was meant for him, and he took it, then, would he take responsibility for whatever's in it? What could be in it? He shook the case.
Heavy.
But Nikolai had already steeled his resolve, and so, he grasped the worn handles.
Hurrying back to the apartment, he clutched the briefcase tightly to his chest. His mind raced as he weaved through the streets, the weight of the case pulling on his arm, but heavier still was the growing sense of unease.
Periodically, he would glance over his shoulder, half-expecting the giant man to reappear from the mist and demand it back. But no one followed. By the time he reached the building, his pulse was pounding in his ears.
Nikolai fumbled with the door, nearly dropping his keys, and slipped inside, climbing the stairs two at a time. His roommates were still gone, and the apartment was quiet, save for the faint creaking of old floorboards.
He shut the door and set the briefcase down on the small desk by the window. His hands hovered over the brass clasps, hesitation creeping in again. What was he about to find? And why had that man left this for him? Shaking off the doubt, he unlatched the briefcase and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in a dark velvet lining, were two items: a curved, claw-like knife and a small handgun.
The knife's blade was short, but its design was sleek, almost predatory, the metal gleaming faintly in the low light of the room.
Nikolai had never seen a knife shaped like that before, the blade curved inward like a talon, the handle wrapped in some sort of old black leather.
His fingers brushed the handle, and a shiver ran up his spine. It felt... dangerous. Like it wasn't meant for domestic use. He turned it over in his hand, trying to imagine who would carry a weapon like this.
Then there was the gun. He wasn't familiar with firearms, but he had recognized the basic shape. The barrel was slim and slightly longer than the few guns he'd seen before, with a sleek, utilitarian design.
The handle had a decrepit look to it, like it had been gripped tightly many times. Nikolai had no idea what kind of gun it was—just that it looked old and somehow... significant.
Both weapons had two symbols carved into them. For the knife, a little inscription on the blade, and for the gun, a small etching on the side of the barrel.
Nikolai stared at both items, his stomach twisting in knots. Why had the man left these for him? These weren't just random objects someone would leave behind by accident. They were weapons. And they certainly looked like they had seen use before—and quite a lot of it.
A knife and a gun, just left there for him.
What did that mean?
Was he supposed to use them?
Against what—or who?
His mind spun with possibilities, none of them good. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something far bigger, something he just didn't understand.
Nikolai closed the briefcase, hands trembling slightly, and sat back in the chair. The apartment was quiet, but outside, the city felt different—like it was watching, waiting for something to happen.
He sat at the desk, the briefcase before him, its contents still hidden beneath the lid.
The question of what to do with them weighed heavily on him.
Turning them over to the authorities seemed like the logical choice. If these were dangerous, someone needed to know. He imagined the scene—calling the police, explaining how he found the briefcase, and handing over the weapons for them to examine.
It seemed straightforward, almost necessary. But then, Nikolai's mind split apart, a headache rampaging through his thoughts.
Gasping, he tore open a prescription bottle that the local pharmacist gave him after his appointment last week. As the pain subsided, he knew that something about the situation felt off, something he couldn't quite pinpoint.
These arbitrary migraines, the nightmares, and now the man and the briefcase, it was all connected, he felt it, but why was he being tormented like this? The quiet hum of the city outside seemed to press in on him, adding to his growing unease.
He reached for the briefcase again, lifting it and staring at the weapons inside. The curved knife and the old gun seemed to mock him with their silence, their significance unknown but undeniably important.
What if he turned them in and it wasn't the right thing to do? What if there was something he was supposed to understand, something he was missing? The more he thought about it, the more he felt like discovering something—something that he might be able to avoid if he followed his instincts.
Nikolai took a deep breath, closed the briefcase, and pushed it under the desk, out of sight, out of mind.
He had a feeling that involving the authorities would only complicate things—and perhaps put him at even greater risk. Whatever this was, he needed to figure it out on his own.
Before it takes the last of my sanity.