The rain in Busan had turned into a fine mist, clinging to Lin's jacket as he shoved the final crate into the back of the stolen Hyundai truck. Every sound—the clatter of metal, the crunch of his boots on wet gravel—felt too loud, too sharp. The docks were quieter now, emptied of most night workers, but Lin knew that didn't mean they were safe. In this city, silence could be just as dangerous as noise.
Min-joon slammed the tailgate shut, glancing over his shoulder at the fog creeping in from the sea. "We need to move. Now." His voice was tight, his eyes constantly flicking to the shadows between the stacked shipping containers.
Keller stood near the cab, scanning the narrow lane between two warehouse walls. "Still no tail," he said, but his hand rested near the grip of his pistol. "Doesn't mean much. They could be waiting for us to make a move."
