A warehouse loomed ahead, rusted scaffolding clinging to its brick face. Through a cracked window, silhouettes moved. Low voices. A crate being dragged across concrete.

From the fire escape above, a figure watched. Motionless. Breath fogging in the cold air. This was the third operation in as many weeks—same warehouse district, same players, same rhythm.

No capes. No sirens. No one coming.

The figure reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, unfolded it with gloved fingers. A crude map of the district, red circles marking each known drop-off point. The newest circle was on this very building.

Below, one of the men stepped into the open, lighting a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated a face—gaunt, scarred, familiar from a dozen BOLO alerts.

A choice hung in the rain-soaked air. Wait for backup that would never come. Or move.