Riley Styles didn't speak during the drive.
He sat in the back of the armored SUV, his black gloves unmoving on his knees, eyes half-lidded in that unnerving way that meant he was listening to everything. The hum of the engine. The distant sirens slicing across Crescent City. The soft rustle of paper as one of his operatives handed him the final dossier Ethan had compiled.
A single name was circled in red ink:
"Captain Varko Genn — Smuggling Chief. Red Fang Supplier. Missing link."
Riley flipped the file open.
Photos. Surveillance shots. Dock schedules. Weapon transfer logs. A blurry shot of Marius laughing with known Red Fang enforcers. Ethan's notes were pinpoint-accurate, rapid, almost clinical:
Operating hub: Iron Quarters — Dockside Sector 7.
High smuggler density.
Controlled by the "Rivet Crowns," an unaffiliated crime syndicate.
Captain Thorn protected by 12–15 armed men.
Preferred weapon: Sawed-off shotgun.
Notorious for switching hideouts every 48 hours.
Location confirmed: Warehouse 12-B until dawn.
Riley closed the file.
"That's enough," he said.
His voice was quiet—too quiet. The four men in the vehicle stiffened anyway.
Crescent City's glittering skyline faded behind them as they approached the outskirts, where neon died and rust took the throne.
Iron Quarters.
A place where the police didn't enter unless they were in body bags. A place where misery had a price and violence was entertainment. A place Riley knew too well.
The SUV slowed as the streets narrowed into twisted, metal-choked roads. Old factories towered over them like broken giants. Fires burned in trash cans. Tattooed enforcers lurked under flickering streetlights. Every corner whispered danger.
"Movement ahead," Briggs murmured from the passenger seat, scanning their surroundings through tinted goggles. "Two Rivet Crown scouts."
"Ignore them," Riley said. "We're not here for them."
The SUV rolled deeper into the Quarters.
Finally, Briggs pointed.
"Warehouse 12-B. Confirmed."
It sat at the very fringe of the docks—a rust-bitten structure slouched between abandoned cranes and broken shipping containers. A few thugs smoked outside, weapons barely concealed beneath their coats.
Riley leaned forward.
"Thermal," he ordered.
Another operative tapped a device. Heat signatures glowed on the tablet screen.
"Twelve… no, fourteen bodies inside. One seated at center table. That'll be him."
Riley opened the door and stepped out into the cold wind whipping off the oily water. The smell of rust and gasoline thickened the air.
His men followed, forming a loose perimeter around him.
"Briggs. South ladder," Riley instructed calmly.
"Kade, take the west scaffolding."
"Juno, you're with me."
"What's the plan, sir?" Juno asked.
Riley stared at the warehouse door—expression unreadable, eyes filled with a decade of buried rage.
"We go in quietly," he said.
"If quiet fails…"
His gloves tightened.
"…we erase everyone loyal to him."
The team nodded without hesitation.
They moved.
Silent. Efficient. Deadly.
A well-rehearsed machine fueled by Riley's command.
Briggs climbed the rusted ladder, positioning with a sniper's angle.
Kade slipped into the shadows, approaching from the scaffolding.
Juno circled with Riley, cutting through gaps between shipping crates.
The ambient noise of Iron Quarters seemed to hold its breath.
Riley signaled with two fingers.
In.
Juno disabled the side camera.
Kade cut power to the rear circuit.
Briggs steadied his rifle on the warehouse roof.
Riley stepped up to the side door.
And without a moment's pause…
He pushed it open—slow, controlled, ready to strike.
Inside, muffled voices rose. Laughter. Beer bottles clinking. The thugs were relaxed, cocky, thinking themselves untouchable in their criminal sanctuary.
Riley took one step inside.
Cold. Focused. Efficient.
———
A few minutes ago, Varko Genn lounged back in his steel chair, boots up on the crate of unregistered pistols, laughing so loudly the metal walls of Warehouse 31-B rattled with every drunken inhale.
"To a job well done, boys!" he roared, slamming his beer bottle against the table.
His men cheered with him—rough, scarred dockside smugglers, the kind who lived on cheap liquor, stolen goods, and the comforting illusion that Iron Quarters made them untouchable.
Varko grinned at the thought.
Another shipment moved.
Another payoff from the Red Fangs.
Another night where Crescent City bent under the weight of their rot.
"Didn't even need to fire a shot. That's what I call finesse," he bragged, tapping a cigar ash into a metal tray. "Red Fang boss'll be happy. Means more money for us."
The men laughed.
"Cap'n," one thug said, leaning forward, "heard a rumor. They say this new billionaire—what's his name, Style? Stall?—has declared to end loan shark business in the county as soon as he comes back."
Varko scoffed.
"Riley Styles?"
He spit the name out like a joke.
"That man's just press. Rich boys always make noise when they want attention."
He lit another cigar, smoke swirling around his thick beard.
"Loan sharks die hard, boy," Varko said confidently. "We've been in this game longer than he's been alive."
Another wave of laughter echoed through the warehouse.
Varko took a long drag.
"Besides… who's stupid enough to come into Iron Quarters? The cops? Heh."
He clicked his tongue.
"No one touches us here."
A guard approached him from the east door.
"Boss," he said, sounding uneasy. "The cameras outside just… flickered. And the lights at the back went out."
Varko waved him off.
"It's the Quarters. Power dies every two hours. Relax."
But something—something small, something quiet—needled at the back of his skull.
Like the prickling sensation of being watched.
He brushed it off.
Paranoia came with the job.
"Everyone shut up," Varko said finally. "Let's do one more count of the shipment, then we head out."
As his men began standing—
A faint metallic creak echoed from the side door.
Varko froze.
"...What was—"
The lights went out.
---
Back to Riley — When the power died, Riley moved.
A shadow slipping through shadows.
"Go," Riley whispered.
Juno slipped left.
Kade crawled across the scaffolding.
Briggs steadied his aim from the roof.
Inside the warehouse, panic began to rise.
"Who the hell turned off the power?!"
Riley stepped inside.
The first thug didn't even see him before Riley slammed a gloved hand over his mouth and drove the man's head into the steel doorframe with a dull thunk. The body was lowered silently to the floor.
Two more came toward the noise. Riley hit the first with an elbow to the throat, the second with a knee to the ribs so sharp it cracked. He disarmed both before they even managed to shout.
Juno ghosted through the room, darting behind crates, using a suppressed shock-baton to take down two men dragging for flashlights.
Briggs sniped the lookout near the back door with a rubberized non-lethal round that dropped him like a sack of bricks.
Kade ambushed the guards near the scaffolding, choking one out and punching the other unconscious before they knew what hit them.
The entire perimeter collapsed in less than thirty seconds.
Inside the center of the warehouse, Varko Genn felt panic crawl up his spine.
"Who's out there?! SHOW YOURSELF!"
Riley finally stepped where he could be seen.
The dim emergency lights flickered just enough to carve out his silhouette—black coat, wet hair slicked back, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Everything about him was calm. Too calm.
Varko's breath hitched.
"You…"
He stumbled backward.
"You're him. You're Riley Styles."
Riley didn't answer.
He walked forward slowly, deliberate, like a predator approaching wounded prey.
Varko's remaining bodyguards rushed forward with a roar.
Riley didn't slow down.
He moved through them—clinical, brutal, efficient:
A twist of the wrist sent one's elbow snapping sideways.
A precise kick shattered another's knee.
A palm strike crushed the third's throat before he could scream.
Juno stunned the last with a quick strike to the back of the neck.
The final guard fell face-first onto the table, unconscious.
Varko stumbled back, sweating.
"Don't come closer—don't—"
Riley stopped a meter away.
"You supply the Red Fangs," Riley said quietly.
"You helped fund tonight's attack."
His eyes narrowed.
"And you think you get to walk away from that?"
The smuggler captain trembled.
He could see it clearly now:
Riley didn't come to negotiate.
He came to end something.
Varko swallowed hard, hands shaking as he looked around for escape—none. His men were all down. His gun was across the room. Riley's operatives blocked every exit.
He had only one option left.
He backed into the table—eyes desperate—and before anyone could move…
Varko grabbed the jagged piece of broken bottle lying there and slashed it across his own throat.
Blood spilled.
The warehouse went silent.
Riley didn't flinch.
He simply watched the life leave Varko's eyes with a cold, assessing expression—disappointed, not shocked.
Briggs' voice crackled through the comms.
"Target down, sir."
Riley stared at the dying man.
"No," he said softly.
"He escaped."
Juno glanced at Riley. "Sir?"
Riley turned away from Varko's collapsing body.
"Clean the scene. Burn whatever ties he had. Someone higher up made sure he'd rather die than talk."
He walked out into the cold night air as the sirens of distant criminals echoed through Iron Quarters.
Riley's jaw tightened.
This wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.