Whispers from the Docks

The rain hammered against the vast expanse of glass, each droplet a tiny fist against the city’s fragile skin. From the Bellandi Tower’s penthouse, it looked like a world dissolving, a watercolor painting blurred by an unseen hand. Adrian Vale, the architect of this new, precarious reign, felt the damp chill seep into his bones, a premonition of the storm that had nothing to do with the sky.

“They’re getting antsy, Adrian.” Silas Bellandi’s voice, a low, gravelly rumble, cut through the rhythmic drumming of the rain. He stood in the shadow of Adrian’s expansive mahogany desk, a hulking silhouette against the muted light, his presence a constant, suffocating weight. “The shipments from the docks. They’re moving slower than a crippled turtle.”

Adrian turned from the window, the city lights a distorted constellation beneath the downpour. He met Silas’s gaze, his own expression a carefully constructed mask of calm. “Antsy how, Silas?”